Gray skies

Though we can’t smell the smoke, 

We still know there’s a fire: 

The sun and the moon are both rosy, 

Against the flat gray of the skies. 

It’s like politicians who claim they spout truth: 

Black and white turn to gray, 

But we still smell the lies.

Going through the motions

When the painters came, three years ago, 

To cover the mustard yellow of our house 

With Storm Cloud Gray, 

We asked them not to take down this old nest, 

But paint around it, and it’s true: 

Each year the swallows would come back 

To nurse new young and leave 

 Their spotted piles of poop 

On the walk below for us to scour 

After they left. But this year they arrived late: 

We had almost decided it was time 

To take down their nest when they arrived 

And now they flutter and squawk at us again 

Each time we leave the house, 

But there’s no sign of eggs, or chicks, 

And so much other craziness 

Is happening in the world, I have to wonder: 

Are they, like us, just going through the motions 

Hoping something will change?

Autumnal harbingers

We’ve come to know 

The signs that summer’s ending — 

Late rising of the morning sun, 

The foghorns in the night, 

The tall brown stalks of foxglove 

Swaying in the breeze, 

The way the fig tree branches bounce 

When the deer rub against them, 

Wrestling the summer fur from their horns, 

And now the squabbles in the yard 

As they lock horns with one another 

 In groups of two or three, 

Then stalk the females, 

Their autumnal debutantes…

Smoke-reddened sun

My camera can’t quite capture 

The sun’s rosy cheeks 

As she sinks into her bed of clouds 

A little earlier each night, 

Exhausted after a long dry summer 

And a hard day breathing smoke.

Celebrating my labors

To celebrate my Labor Day 

I took over 100 pix of my paintings 

In an attempt to build a current inventory.

 I then compared them with the pix 

 I had stored on my computer, and found 

So many paintings missing — 

Gifts or sales I failed to record, 

But many more that I had hated 

 And painted over, then forgot to file away;

 Some of which I barely remember 

 Painting in the first place, 

And others that I’m sad I lacked 

The foresight to preserve. 

My cat was far more interested 

In the spider on the floor.

To welcome, not exclude

This tiny fawn, the latest born, 

And last of all her cousins in the yard 

To lose her spots  

Lies sleeping in the birdbath’s shade  

On a sunny afternoon, 

Her pale white belly full 

From all the plants her mama’s taught her 

To nibble. 

Of course we could have built a fence 

To protect the flowers and the trees, 

But we made that choice 

I hope we’ll always make: 

To welcome, rather than exclude.

Sweet sameness

Should I be reassured 

By the sameness of my days? 

The deer, the squirrels, the crows 

That eat the peanuts we sometimes 

Toss into the yard; 

The nightly walks, the glorious sunsets; 

Time spent reading, writing, painting — 

Is that enough, now that I’m old, 

Or should I be seeking something new, 

New friends, new destinations, 

New horror stories in the news, 

The latest TikTok or bitcoin scandal? 

Life seems full, but is this just 

Some high cholesterol diet, 

All sweetness, and not enough protein?