Still Precisely Foolish

Afternoon naps, waking to low-rolling thunder west in the valley, a storm that never reaches us. What are rivers for?

Everything grows hazy and dim, even the swallows diving and swooping over the garden at dusk are merely connotative. The many insults inherent in metonymy.

Kissing birch leaves at six a.m., still precisely foolish. Blue hills in the distance.

I make extra coffee in the morning, put it up in Mason jars in the fridge, and as an afterthought for Chrisoula, a jar of tea as well. What have you been talked out of recently and why.

Sunlight as spectacle, even without the benefit of prisms. There is all this green, there are all these unfinished poems, there are all these ongoing opportunities for entanglement.

Folding quilts after sleeping on the couch downstairs, happily bringing order to order, the cosmos forever in a state of affirmation. Dizzy in the heat, leaning on a shovel in the compost, no longer young but okay with it. 

Early apples falling in tall grass, going under. Long drives to Ashfield, working out the terms of the marriage going forward.

Walking past the horses to the river, putting our feet in, listening to cows moan on sloping hills in the distance. You are not an envelope, you are a love letter!

Watering the garden at dusk, looking in vain for the moon. Forsythia shoots.

Remember arguing can a poem be one word? The dogs wait patiently at the forest's edge, unalarmed by the many crows intent on confusing passage.