A House Climbs a Hill
I like the way a house climbs a hill,
the hill rounding its shoulders
like a man stooping
to let a child climb aboard.
The way the house clings, stands
upright, the way the child straddles
and rides high, unafraid.
The way I rode on my father's
rounded shoulders, waving
to the world spread out below,
hills and houses waiting
for a new word to rise to my lips.
A gold wand in my hand.
This house, this hill, this man.
The way we bend, bear, shoulder
one another, moment to moment.
Dear Tendril
Petiole, part leaf, part stem,
rootlike thread, hair of the vine,
you twist any trellis, twine
around whatever you touch,
tenacious.
Slender tentacle,
nothing but coil and spiral,
grabbing the branch,
grasping the straw.
All you can do, like any of us
is clutch and climb,
clasp and cling,
Amends
Regret lingers, niggles. Yellow lilies
on the table, gone brown in the vase.
The garden we talk about, endlessly,
but never begin, deterred by tough sod.
On the edge of the walk, the wheelbarrow
full of stones waits like an undelivered
apology. Within, the floor needs scrubbing
and only hands and knees will do the job.
I know that forgiveness is a simple meal—
a salad, a boiled potato, a glass of tea.
Easy to prepare, to offer. That the silence
afterward will satisfy, perhaps even nourish.
