Plink-plonk-plink

Greenman hears a plink in the pond. He peers out of the solid wood and vast stretch of fern-blanketed earth on the verge of being swallowed up by night. "Maybe I'll plink a couple of poems into the pond, too."



BEFORE DADDY DIED

Before Daddy died, I didn’t feel
like an orphan the month between
Father’s day and his birthday.

Before Daddy died, I thought
the ocean safe, the forest
friendly, and life unending.

Before Daddy died, I knew who
to call when the name of a tree
or flower eluded me.

Today I ask him anyway.
Like school vocabulary words,
he says to look it up.



THE LOVE OF CROWS

When you love me, you invite
the crows. I open the door
and they caw good morning.
At each curve, they remind me
of past deaths suffered or caused.
You must hear the whole story.
Seeing them pick some last scrap
from the road and fly into
the woods, I’m guided to tell
a truth. They will follow you.
When I’m away crows will perch
on your mailbox. When we are
together, they’ll dance a jig
of mischief. Raucous laughter
caws at us or with us.
When you love me, you invite
the crows to foretell futures,
black as the space between stars,
filled with dreams. All true.