Things I am trying to remember to write about that have seemed very beautiful this week
walking barefoot in the grass, missing a wasp crawling the ground on the warm spring bricks,
His big hands catching a carpenter bee on the screen porch, holding him tightly and also gently, releasing him into the outside air, everyone smiling
The sound of a snake into the pond, the sound magnified in the standing water that the beavers diligently protect,
The sound also of frogs into the bayou, their myriad,
The sound of mosquitos high and tinny in the air above of us, a distant and bloodthirsty angel choir, their cloud not yet stooping to our skin,
The distant croak of a bullfrog as the stars prick the air
The silence of the lightning bugs across the pond, and then above us, the first of the year, or maybe they’ve been here and this was the first time we witnessed it,
How everything looks like a snake when you are looking for snakes
How everything can look like a miracle when you start looking for miracles
Still his silver colored canoe is there in the daisies, sleeping. Imagine a world where you can cover the waterfront and the land and never rest until you are bone-tired, you can see everything and all of it, what is preventing you,
The little plants that are rising in patient rows,
The turtles unmoved by gunfire,
The cowbirds and their strange rainwater puddle and radio signal singing
All that the blue-eyed-cross-eyed cat left was a startlement of her fur, what happened,
If you lean back you can see the big dipper,
The silence and cacophony of the pond as it falls into dusk and then night,
He said I lead a bunch of painters down to the beach to paint at night, I got to where I memorized where I put colors on the palette, when you stand out, even on a full moon, the colors change, you can’t see exactly what you are doing. If you shine a light on it in the darkness, that changes everything. The best part is to carry it home and look at it, you never know what exactly you’ve done.
Crossvine, fallen. Poison ivy, rising.
The blossoming, the whole air fragrant, chinaberry to iris to apple blossom, cherry blossom, roses, honeysuckle, everything on the wind, eager to meet you
Dreaming the ladder to his studio only had one nail that kept it attached to it’s distant platform, I made it to the top but climbed down, couldn’t believe in the strength of the landing
Morning on the porch reading, Thoreau saying heaven is above our heads and below our feet,
Finding where the chickens moved their egg-laying to
The fat leaves of the squash covering their row,
The havoc of his planting, when he decides to plant and where, unnamed, unasked, just done and all of a sudden: sweet potato, bitter melon, zinnias, “you got to water them in, you’d be surprised,”
Opening the windows in the morning, raising the curtains,
The dog choosing to lay next to me in my studio, the cat finding a new bed to spend her day sleeping on,
A crop-duster bright in the blue sky early,
The bald eagles in the rain, distant, white tailed, unconcerned
Always finding someone to say hello to at Wal-Mart, y’all be good now,
Boxes of pottery on the porch,
Another rainy day to work in, another rainy day for the yard,
All of your sins are forgiven, you are loved.
