Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful. Rita Dove
When I Was 70
When I was 70, I planted 4 trees.
Fig trees – infants, babies,
Tiny little things
In hopes that I would live to see
them become adults:
Verdant, tall, itchy white sap, sweet fruit
Filled with crunchy, honeyed seeds
Calling to birds, bees – and me.
So far they are showing promise.
I feed them and give them water
Like a social worker feeding the homeless.
Carefully doled out, then on my way.
They are survivors, living unprotected.
No tents, newspapers,
Tattered blankets, layers of scavenged clothes,
Comforted them through icy rain.
We are not Baghdad or Beirut
Tropical climes with desperate lives
Looking for protection from guns or government.
Well, at least only some of us are; the rest, not yet.
Latitude alike but very different.
We are a tropical place where tourists roam free
New graffiti blooms – a little – and
Gunshots are rarely heard.
They grow.
When I have passed from memory
Not even a wisp of me remaining
Ashes returned to earth,
If I have done my work well
They will stand tall, leafy and fruitful,
And shelter and feed those remaining.
No one will remember that when I was 70
I planted 4 trees.
Waiting for SpaceX
I love the night, the dark, dark night.
Luna blessing with blue-white light.
Shining over azure sea.
Aqua-tipped foam runs to me.
Still shapes with wings tucked ‘til morn.
Metallic scent and plaintive horn,
Stars slyly winking while satellites hover,
I sit in the cool, robe cinched to cover
me – waiting for X to appear.
Cloudless blue sky – sight lines clear!
I strain my eyes and swivel my head.
But it doesn’t. Sigh. Off to bed.
3AM
Bitter smoke abounds.
Snap, crackle, pop. Stairs only.
Faster. Hot fire comes.
Maggie
Fantastic. She is
Black, bold, bright, brave. Bodacious
is my dog Maggie.
How Much
A pinch of this
A smidge of that
A jot, a dash, a handful.
A heaping scoop
A knob or two.
A drop, a splash, a whisker.
Din-ner!