Awaiting
The seed catalogue
is another form of advent.
Comparing the pictures,
guessing at names,
measuring the beds,
buying the mulch
and fertilizer,
getting out the jaded
trowel and hoe
for another go at growth.
There’s always
that gap of trust
between what we do
and what we hope for.
Humans don’t wait well,
truth be told. And we worry
like mice in the cold
corner saucering our eyes.
Come spring
the blooms might emerge
so we can feel triumph
in our modest part
amid water, wind, and soil
beneath a sun
that credits every day
that comes and goes
and maybe
opens a dream.
Burbank
Somehow I still remember
the town everyone has forgotten.
As a child we drove through
straight across the railroad tracks,
past the mine, and on
to our further occupations.
Once we even stopped
to visit a friend.
Who knows what the big
earthen hole formerly contained?
Who kept money from it?
A grassy airstrip remains
with its flat yawning runway
to carry twin-prop planes
above this flinty earth.
Now the high-speed road
veers by the sunken gas station,
one light blinks pause
for crossing cars.
Even trees have left
for better moons.
Yet a quietly nodding
prairie lingers
in green and gold.
