Summer

After seven long decades,

I finally know the summer.

It is purely a gift,

one I neither fathom nor assign:

the freedom to walk outside

without any further consideration.

The lettuce marches through its rows,

tomatoes hang from their vines

and the basil perches on its stalks.

The sun rises to a friendly angle,

and the windows are confidently open

so we can hear the song sparrow,

proclaiming for all the joy

we find again and again,

as life goes through the business

of asserting itself once more,

as if January never were.

The Words: a Suite in Three Movements

1

As surely as paint on canvas

or notes on a keyboard,

these words go on paper:

not exactly the blue skies or a sun,

much less than flowers in a field

or a river running south.

Still, if less than perfect,

not quite equal to this beauty,

words are what we heard or saw;

and so, as fully realized

as what they aimed to describe,

what they wanted to praise;

how this will be remembered

by you and me and those to come.

2

Surrounded by the people I love,

by the clouds and the trees,

all these treasures of each day,

there is still the quiet of the night,

the solitude I share

with pencil and paper;

the happiness of watching

the words begin to arrive

to put all this in its proper place;

to hope for the right colors,

the exact sound of voices,

  in all their shapes and forms;

for in the end, accuracy

is the beginning of gratitude.

3

Flaubert talked of entire days

devoted to the question

of placing a comma,

and why would he not?

The challenge in all this

is to be understood,

to witness an afternoon,

to locate its falling light

on an intelligible canvas:

to paint it for a reader,

and say, here I was,

and so will you be as well--

but only if I have found the way

that brings us to the same words.

Thoughts While Listening to the Black Poet

What a gift I have been given,

a life with no particular history:

the space to consider birds and flowers,

to ponder the stars and origins,

with no need to think of tribes,

nor themes imported from the past.

There’s no stigma I must face,

nothing like the slap of the daily insult,

or some afternoon when a mob gathers

with death on the agenda;

no heritage I dare not ignore,

the Peculiar Institution or the deadly ships--

nothing I can’t refuse to remember,

nor any need to embrace truths

which feel like grasping nettles.

What I have is a gift to be free:

free to experience late summer primrose

and the magic of a red moon,

but it only invites the question:

how did I come to deserve this?  

Shrinking

Thanks to the working of the ages,

I am now three inches shorter,

almost a wisp of my former body;

but not, I hope, smaller in my being,

or losing the lovely imaginings

of the words which assault me

each day and demand their page.

Old fingers and their pencil still move

through the loops of cursive,

a hand moving across the page,

a magic of remembered motions

turned into letters learned long ago

that make those words,

which still seem to serve me well,

to carry the weight and dimensions

of what must be said.

We Think About Pets

(For Maya and Leo Toyokawa)

If you want to have a pet:

think of all the critters you could get!

You might choose a dog or a cat,

but you would surely not care for a bat.

Some have yearned for a kangaroo--

but I think they’re best in a zoo,

and should someone give you a yak,

I bet you would send it back!

Your mom had a guinea pig

(they look like they’re wearing a wig),

and perhaps you would like an eagle--

but they are fierce-- unlike a beagle!

So,  if all of this seems to much--
just stick with that doggy named Dutch!

September 24: We Meet a Snake

On our walk near the river,

my dog and I met a snake

who paid us no attention,

a being entirely unconcerned

as it flicked that arrow of a tongue,

content to gather in the sun;

and likewise we, on this early fall day,

grateful for light and warmth

beside sunflowers in bloom,

for one more day before the dark,

and then, we all agreed

(serpent, flower, dog and man)

that nothing had changed,

that there had been no equinox.

At the Oncology Center

Here we sit, a collection of souls

arranged in a line of easy chairs,

tended by three guardian angels

who cheerfully administer the poisons

we need for a few more months--

or perhaps a lifetime.  Who knows?

Today the place is grimly quiet,

absent the brave chatter of other days:

some of us asleep, others simply still,

passing through hours we hope to forget,

with burdens seemingly difficult to share,

each of us poised over our fate in silence,

trying to measure the future

in dimensions of hope or despair.