This Outside Color
Drawn to the weathered red chair
Looking at perennials yet smelling
The dog poop
Chirp conversations of the cardinals
“Speak en Englais - not chirp!”
The melon color geranium would look better in the lavender pot
Might as well since the lavender died
There’s Mary, behind the dead lavender--literal and figurative
The silver heart is in her hand
Seriously?
My whole life in this messed up garden
He started his memorial years ago
The boots, cherub bird bath, fence
He knew the fence would be necessary
And the camera
And the rocking 50’s red glider
The barnwood birdhouse
Dirty dogs
And the music, the damn, music,
I wanna see you dance again
On that Harvest Moon
You’re as sweet as Tupelo Honey
Into the Mystic
Screaming “Van the Man” at the illusive concert
Thirty years of color, rich vibrant, noisy color
Now chirps, squalks, barks and dead lavender
Nothing Compares to You
But there’s Mary
Green with a glued on head
Missing a thyroid
Holding the silver heart from an old lover
Chiming next to his boots
And the dead lavender
It’s been three months and 15 days, since you went away
You can still smell the manly scent of the former purple plant
And the black petunias
You planted last year
and they came back,in the only box
That didn't cave
They came back, still black, but
You did not
The week before you asked about the orange flowers in the picture
Don't worry, they didn't last either
Only what you planted last year
They weren't supposed to but you were
They live, you don't
Mary, even without her Adam's apple, lives in verde gris in the garden
Perennials don't live forever and annuals
~they might live another year
Just a spore of you
I bet there are some on your boots out there
Just like the chartreuse felt growing on the gate
It began as an invisible spore
Give rise to a "new individual without sexual fusion"
Mary did it
I know there's a cell strong enough to reproduce from your Bigfoot boots
My colorful colorful man.
Widowhood
The divine dance,
The mosaic of the broken pieces.
“Might a hand reach out and lead us into the Divine Dance?” (William Paul Young - from Rohr)
Whispering in our ears that we were always made for this,
A mystic, he was born to love me
Woodpecker tap tap tap doa doa doa
Mother Mary comforts me speaking words of wisdom
Let it flow
the rose
Breath in and wait for the kiss
Of profound compassion
Mirror it
One of the few meaningful invites