spirits dancing

susannah came out of the farmhouse with a basket, intending to collect a few daffodils and perhaps branches from the blooming quince and azaleas down by the road. she dipped under the prayer flags waving in the breeze, and danced away over the grass. turning, she spied greenman, who had taken up residence near the pond, assumedly because sophie was said to be in residence. susannah knew that sophie would only appear by the light of the moon, and at dawn would go back down into the water, unless pancakes were being served at breakfast, in which case she might linger for a moment or two over coffee with the intellegentsia at the table. she liked discussing things with zoe - the two of them seemed to have an innate understanding of the world's more esoteric vibrations. susannah wondered how long it would take greenman to register the comings and goings of her friend, and sighed, wondering what unearthly dross would catapult next from the pen of the mermaid.

it was certain to be eye-opening and provocative, at the very least. susannah bent this way and that, snipping buttery-yellow blooms and adding them to the basket. when it was full, she carried it back up to the house and made a lovely arrangement for the kitchen table, being careful to wipe up the tiny spots of water before mrs. lytle could see them.

Nearly spring

Greenman is amazed. This new cyber-woods has turned him a tarnished coppery color. And more amazing there's activity again at the farm house. It's spring time and his thoughts naturally turn to baseball and nymphs.

OMAHA

Once I dreamed of Omaha
in early summer.
I saved spare change
to finance the trip
to sit in the stands
with my grandson
or in a grander dream
to watch him pitch
at Rosenblatt.
Far fetched dreams.
If they happen,
I will not be there.
Once I believed baseball
diamonds were sacred
geometries. Add sunshine
and grandkids,
and they could soothe
any trouble
like a well turned double play.
Lift the spirit
like a line drive streaking
for the centerfield fence.
Watching the game
is a pale passion
when the invitations stop.
Once my granddaughter
gave me a piggy bank
with the body
of a baseball. She feared
it was a stupid gift.
It was perfect
even with the crack by the slot
that Nana had to point out.
It was our last Christmas.
I still use it when change
jingles with too much loss.




NAIAD

The Shady Lady’s sign
proclaims:
Pool
Spirits
Dancing.
I’m tempted
to discover
what drought or dam
or sewage treatment
spill would drive
a water nymph
to domestication.
Is it chlorine
or gin
that makes her dance?
I don’t go in.
A world so full
of disbelief
condemns her
to a dive.