These are the poems that appear in This Book
Blackeyed Susan
Blackeyed Susan is the smell of the solstice:
Winding wildflower paths
In a sunlit field—
Filled with stars of summer.
The cicadas sing around the drum circle
And blue smoke follows me
From the footpath to the forest,
Where Sun-tired children
Collect firewood and bee-stings.
Honey-sweet
Little Blackeyed Susan,
Pummeled pollen against our legs;
Dance and nod until the shadows grow cool
And we drive the dirt roads home—
And Mom chants the solstice to sleep.
Lily of the Valley
Lily of the valley smells green
Like mother’s shirt
A threadbare sweater she wears
To walk in the cool evening
When the shadows grow long
We pass the poplars and quaking aspens –
I love how they shiver—
To see the dusk go down—
We wander past the house
Where unknown neighbors
Came for weekends to dump their trash.
Piling up and piling up, until the roof caves in
And the neighbors come no more.
Behind the tumbling stone walls
Lurks this tarpaper shack:
Filled with discarded trinkets.
During the day I dodge tetanus to explore this
Dangerous treasure.
The Hemlock tree drops little cones to earth
Near the flower bed.
Soon all this trash will burn away:
Flames reaching tree-top high
And bulldoze under the eyesore,
The little lily’s home.
Snowdrop
Pretending I hear chanticleer’s crow
I pull on my Oshkosh boots
And hurry up the hill, thumping through the snow
That coats the path.
At the barn door I undo the latch and hesitate,
Push against the weathered red wood—and listen
For a kid’s bleat from the dark stalls.
The door squeals open and I flick the electric switch:
The barn comes to light and I am disappointed—
No babies born this morning.
The nannies chew their cud and eye me
With frustrating patience.
I toss some hay into the trough,
And trudge back to the house
To relay the news and wait in the bitter chill—
Hands stretched near the woodstove.
Alone, snowdrops push furled heads up
Through the icy soil
To take their first breath.
Goldenrod
Birthday bouquet,
Dust drifting up the hill,
Apples in the autumn sun.
I climb the tree to shake the top branches
Where I am still small enough to stand.
Dad braces the ladder
As the apples thump to land.
Touch-Me-Nots
Snap, pop, touch me not—
Curls of green
Seeds fly at every step.
This is their home:
Thick bog mud and the taste of mint
Water cress’s crunchy leaves
Rough lichen-covered stones.
The cats follow me downhill on padded feet,
Black against the green.
I wade, and they hunt
For field mice in the saw grass.
Queen Anne’s Lace
Queen Anne’s Lace and ant-hills
Multiply in the drive way
Where Dad hammers rocks to pave the wheel ruts.
Queen Anne’s Lace guards the pasture,
And signals the end of the electric fence.
As I crawl under, I hear its buzz above my braids.
Under the lacy tops sweet ripe strawberries
Hide among spittlebug towers,
Waiting for me to crunch their seeds
Against my baby teeth.
Holly Hock
Little Dolls,
Dad shows me how to fold them:
Purple skirts,
Wide white eyes, green caps
And sticky skins.
They dance in the sunlight, twirl
And fall apart—
Leaking seed medallions.
Japanese beetles hold hands
With their prickly stalks.
Done with their day—abandoned
They dry on the cracked porch.
Dead dolls smell rich like loam,
Tea leaves in the sun –
I’ll plant them in the spring.
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