Rural Free Delivery She has painted her rural mailbox bright yellow —maybe from a leftover quart— the only cheer among miles of silver and black. I ask my neighbor what she is expecting, but without pause, good-naturedly joke that it’ll scare away the loan called in or the hardware supplies bill or taxes owed. She looks at me blankly. I wonder, should I paint mine a similar bright color, akimbo as it is, bowed head on an old locust fencepost? She has an email address, follows family on social media; the red flag is rarely raised. Her Prius is seen coming and going from the lane that the mailbox guards like an obedient farm dog. Surely, the spruce-up is not for sale catalogs or cheap fliers from the chain grocery in Amicus. It is there for one message—the official Angelgram whose words will echo in tinny darkness. Every day she opens the gravestone-shaped door with a practical clairvoyance, hopes there is word from her MIA. Endless waiting is the invoice she pays. She has nailed reflectors down the post to the gravely ground so that it can be seen at night, even in an unforgiving darkness. ▬▬▬ Uncommon Ground My shepherd throws his bark as a warning, confirmed by echoing knock: a man stands at the back door like a religious proselytizer. He is the neighbor’s surveyor waving a pudgy fist of photocopied plats, highlighted, rumpled. He assures me he means no harm. But pairs of pine stobs, ribboned pink and blue, have suddenly sprouted in my lawn as rude as cat briar, as evidence of a break-in: those long slivers of overlap, conflicts, his abstracts brought down to earth. He has hammered a re-bar ‘pin’ by the hemlock tree as a legal document, says errors were made years ago. His verdict is the indifference of straight ink, triangles sharpened by GPS coordinates. Only a numbers man, a messenger, I cannot fault his accuracy. I resist possessiveness, but having lived forty-five years in the county deed book, in the trust of irons set, monuments found that now mean less than what they once did, what they swore to. I know decimal creep, the trespass of fractional feet. His map does not show life’s contours, the delight of spring, nor the measure of my days, nor can it imprison the imagination of wings. ▬▬▬ Submitting to The Distraction Review We spend to our poverty for the riches we desire habitually needing more than enough. So, for Love’s transfusion we donate our disease, we fertilize flowers with the world’s transience. We shred birthday cards to out-fox our consequences, lie to judges to be honest with ourselves, junk the chrome of pretense, gods of grief. Let us remember to forget institutional cowardice, the emotions we cannot mop-up, forget the dog barking distantly through the Beethoven symphony. Despair hears no beckoning trumpets, no joy, the garble of chagrin. We find love on the backside of the wall, the graffiti side, as necessity is not always pretty. Dementia arrives with losing our way, convinced chairs are dancing the Virginia Reel. We shovel sweet soil into the bitter grave, like the one-to-ten pain management of poetry: choice is as dead as chance would have it. And these are the riches of our poverty. ▬▬▬ White Lilacs Snarky comments I jotted years ago in margins of Auden’s famous lines are no longer naïve as I erase them, erase anxious adolescence. Who can criticize their sincerity? Much is left out of any teaching, avoiding questions that do not matter like white lilacs floating, ghosts in grayscale background: while glee-faced children, somersault on grandmother’s spring lawn. How were we to know that one would steal, then lie about it, another would lose her breasts to cancer, the joking cousin would die young? How can we forget those white lilacs whose presence seems so mocking? ▬▬▬ Blind Admission Memory of the road’s curves and grades will save me; the fog thickest at this near hour. I know forest ridges are out there, that a bridge leaps to another bank, that peace is at the end of mindfulness. Driving with the warning my wife insisted on, a farewell that said don’t leave, the pavement suddenly rises as a roller-coaster rush, to disappear in the rearview mirror as blank as my windshield bravery. Squinting into terra incognito, into gray confusion, one light ahead glows as a guide, yet its blind side aims for me. Without slowing, the pick-up passes like a secret quickly confessed: two tail-lights saying, I told you so. Will she believe that I did not hit a deer nor swerved to miss it, that out of the river’s valley I am returned? ▬▬▬ Every Kid Needs a Creek A New York doorman ready to please, Gordon stepped on and pulled up the barbed-wire fence for our gang to trespass Mister Truett’s cow-pied pasture, to short-cut our way to Rucker’s Run: an occasional cloud blessing us with shade like a mother’s cautionary encouragement. We bee-lined toward the sycamore whose muscled roots were grandstand and ladder. Blind hands grabbled for crayfish, we stalked water snakes sunning above the minnows, pocketed odd-colored pebbles. And tried to dam the depth with rocks we could barely lift, thinking weight alone would stop the flow. Endlessly, hours were given to shifting silt patterns: we questioned one another as boys find their ways. The exaggerated gestures of proclaimed innocence didn’t fool us: we’d later learn our consequences. And I no longer had a desperate need to belong.

Beaver Moon -1 Be like a beaver and give a dam you are who you are and I am who I am. I can't be you and you can't be me But look in the mirror and like what you see You are the only you that you have Try to be happy Act like you're glad If you like yourself You'll also like others If you are grump why should anyone bother? ▬▬▬ Beaver Moon- 2 Beavers busy preparing for winter before the water fully freezes Fur coats help ward off most brisk breezes ▬▬▬ Beaver Moon – 3 Dam busy beavers preparing for winter gnawing down trees so their lodge doesn't splinter Others resort to scratching or digging preparing for winter and cold weather rigging Rutting is deer game Frost moon and freezing Other full moon names while the cold is increasing ▬▬▬ December Full Cold Moon As night draws a dark curtain across the sky and coldness knocks on doors and windows, time turns inward and reviews what has past and what is to be. Turn negativity into positivity creating an image of warmth and light enough to share with a world in desperate need of both. ▬▬▬ December Cold Moon – 2 What can you learn from the cold moon's bright glare? Are there lessons of which you should be aware? Some lessons you learn may be harder to swallow but if Life's questions are tough they might be better to follow. ▬▬▬ Full Moon of Many Names Full moon of many names please help to brighten the longest nights of the year Frost or cold because cold is a given Yule or oak because the solstice is nigh Child because it rises so early children can see it Change-3 because China landed 3 rovers on it

A World of Possibilities Cacophony of nighttime sounds that roar and trill inside my head. Cicadas buzz and whine and chirp that endless din of noise I dread. A barn owl hoots throughout the night, with giant wings he swoops up high. A cricket hides inside my house, I cannot find him, though I try. Then morning comes to my delight as songbirds sweetly sing their tunes. The whirr of tiny hummingbirds eliminate those nightly croons. Winds whisper in the morning light. Leaves rustle in the maple trees. Old Sol lifts high; my troubles fade like downy feathers in a breeze. Green grass is lush beneath my feet. Sweet scent of jasmine fills the air. A world of possibilities ~ remind me that He’s everywhere. ▬▬▬ Morning Skies The morning sky is drenched in gold with clouds that look like honied milk. Then miles of pink and blue emerge like floating ribbons soft as silk. At crack of dawn, my world awakes. A cardinal sings his melody. Winds whisper through the leafy trees. The breath of God serenity. As daybreak sweeps away the night, stars fade before the bright sunrise. Sheer beauty in this gilded gift of love He shares in morning skies. The sunbeams warm the chilly earth across the hills and vistas grand. A joy to watch the world transform, a message from His mighty hand. I lift my longing gaze to see a change in His kaleidoscope, From baby blue to bold sapphire, His heaven fills my heart with hope. The morning sky a treasured prize that brings me peace and happiness. The unknown lies in each new dawn. Familiar yet mysterious. ▬▬▬ He Hung the Stars He hung the sparkling stars in space, suspended them in indigo. He ladled out the seven seas with splashing waves that ebb and flow. He placed the moon to rule the night, a bold reflection of the sun, its pull so strong, it turns the tide, a power conceived by only One. We watch the eastern skies at dawn to see the golden bright sunrise. The shadows fade, the dewdrops dance. With hope and wonder, my heart sighs. He made the creatures of the earth, each one unique in their own way. The spotted owl, the great blue whale -- as different as night and day. He carved the rugged mountain tops and painted them a purple hue. He spun the golden fields of grain beneath the sky of azure blue. Then He created humankind in His own image as was His plan. Profound reminder of His love, with joy, He holds us in His hand. He etched each snowflake in the air as fancy as Chantilly lace. Then swirled them in a cloud of white and sprinkled them on each child’s face. We marvel at the universe and praise the gifts He gave with flair. We celebrate the grand cosmos, and humbly bow our heads in prayer. ▬▬▬ Gratitude The sun spills o’re o’er the mountain top and fills the valley floor with gold. Bright sunbeams warm my weary soul and chase away the night of cold. The meadowlarks and mockingbirds sing melodies for all to hear. A young doe stops, her ears stand tall. She calmly waits ‘til all is clear. A swallowtail lands near our pond, its wings aflutter in the sun. It lands and lifts off in a wink as catfish leap as if for fun. A flock of geese fly overhead. Striped caterpillars crawl along. From great to small, from fast to slow, I’m grateful for the busy throng. From mountaintop to valley floor these sights and sounds begin my day. He made each one, He made us all. His love is always on display. ▬▬▬ Patch of Blue The morning sky was ominous as massive clouds just skidded by. Like giant soldiers on parade, they marched across the gloomy sky. I watched in wonder as the clouds descended on the ocean waves. They clung like shrouds to ev’ry one and in the mist, a looming haze. Relentless were the pounding seas as foggy skies blocked out the sun, exhausted by the dreary day not fit for beast or anyone. I turned around to face the shore, the skyline and the distant view. I looked for signs of joy and bliss, of one good thing to hold onto. One daisy on a hill of green. One songbird singing, maybe two. The fragrant scent of lavender. Then there it was…a patch of blue. ▬▬▬ Reflections That night we laughed and cried ‘til dawn beneath the moon and midnight sky. Reflections shimmered in the night. Our love was new but never shy. The joy we shared of lovers’ bliss, sweets dreams embedded in the night. Stars twinkled in the massive sky. They winked and blinked ‘til morning light. Beneath God’s sparkling Milky Way enduring love had just begun. The sights and sounds of timelessness, sheer joy and peace rolled into one. We never stopped to question why love flourished like the roses wild. Our hearts began to beat as one as precious as a newborn child. Then gusts of wind swept through the trees exposing ev’ry jagged limb. As clouds emerged and blocked our view we learned our shelter rests in Him. Another world is calling now. Alluring music plays our tune. Wish we could sing our songs again in our idyllic Brigadoon. ▬▬▬ Tanka Prose (Abundance) A young doe walks across the lawn toward the orchard leaving a trail of tracks in the pristine white carpet. She stops under an apple tree where, pawing the ground, she finds a plethora of fruit from last year’s bumper crop. Continuing to sniff the air for danger, she ambles between the trees, relishing the welcome feast. Old Rusty, the neighbor’s dog barks. The yearling flinches and in a flash, she jumps the garden fence and leaps into the brush, her flag waving in the tall grasses. I watch until she disappears over the next hill. The pale blue winter sky grows brighter as Sol rises and melts the frosted dew on my windowpane. Hungry Dark-eyes Juncos, Towhees, Wrens and Chickadees raid the courtyard bird feeders. A Downy Woodpecker and Flicker attack the suet hanging from the giant oak. Noisy Blue Jays pluck seeds from drooping Sunflower heads. Squirrels and pigeons forage around them on the ground as baby rabbits nibble on moss from the rocky patio. Breakfast is served – alfresco! blanket of snow beneath cerulean sky assurance there is always room for one more at His table ▬▬▬ When Love Was New That winter night when love was new, a cold wind whistled through the land. We sat beside a roaring fire, with chardonnay and book in hand. You read me poems from the book that winter night when love was new. We shared our deepest secrets there. Along the way our passion grew. Beneath the stunning Milky Way, the stars were shining bright ‘til morn. That winter night when love was new, our timeless melody was born. Remembering that winsome night, a vision of my dreams came true. I found my soulmate for all time that winter night when love was new.

Haiku Suite II little fox running startled me unknowingly a few feet away unceasing raindrops cascade down the window sill no ending in sight along the highway natural conifer cones ready for pick up leaves turning colors dead branches falling from trees laying on the ground

White Clouds Rise Over the Paris Sky White clouds rise Over the Paris sky In a random prance Of light Like an artist dappling gouache paint To capture reflections Off the Seine Where eddies Sometimes swirl backwards Run Down the belly Of the river Shoot Straight up beyond The tattered cobalt sky Where remnants of my soul Spiral Above the City of Lights In a shroud Floating through lustrous French heavens Bumping Into the seasons of my life I feel as though I have been swallowed whole Revisiting the pages of recounts Held hostage In my beating heart One more check-off on my bucket list . . . ▬▬▬ As I Sip My Morning Coffee Warm breezes dance Down the mountain In a twirling ballet Round and round they go Through leaves and limbs Swaying branches to and fro Dipping into perfect pirouettes Tossing sultry air to flutter The scalloped edges Of our striped canvas awning Ghost breeze tickling the perspiration On my neck and arms As I sip my morning coffee Porch rocker creaking in time With the momentum Of Mother Nature’s appeal to the season And the Dog Days of Summer Continue To Rise With The Sun ▬▬▬ Bringing in the Sheaves This is our call To withstand What is happening in our nation Where do we turn When did spirited division turn to hate and dissention How do we oppose odium avoid the calamitous effects Of a totalitarian government We shall mend wounds move forward Plant seeds Sweet tender rows of dreams Separate the wheat from chaff Fold The flock together Find common ground Joyfully hawking Gleaned Munificent Baskets Filled With The Fruits Of Humanity ♬ Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, we shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves♬ ▬▬▬ Backlit Like Slanting Light on Stained Glass Light shines on abundant branches In the lingering row of grapevines Backlit like slanting light on stained glass Depicting The Coming of Christ . . . A mass of sinners Flow from pews line up For the promised cleansing Tattered list of transgressions in hand Rosary beads dangling in wait burnished From the repeated petitions Of a well-worn life where our failings hang heavy Like succulent over-ripe orbs burst and ooze our misdeeds Spewing them on hallowed ground For all to behold At least that’s how it appears to me . . . ▬▬▬ Immersed in a Buttery Glow Immersed in a buttery glow that would soon melt into dusk A vast ceiling of dotted stars Await encircling of show Around and around They go Lights darken In nocturnal flight Where birds alight Illuminating the tightrope Of the Magpie’s perch Where he directs A private showing of: Mixed reality Shifting patterns Broad altering shadows Chased by striations of blue— Lined up across A Monet Wintry Woodland Canvas

Callaway Road Does it really matter the myth or truth of old-timers who insist the future President himself as a brave lad rode down this road? Narrow ribbon of a dirt path first used by the Tutelo then trappers then Scots and Germans then a few English. Scrabble on a straightaway in narrow valley climbs suddenly, swerves atop the plateau. Tall, muscular man profile like the poplars. Keen eyes he traveled these mountains seeking forks in the road with sudden valleys where forts could be built. Found one two miles hence. Then moved on, alliances to forge, future foes to thwart, a revolution to build. ▬▬▬ Big Lick I stand at the Star looking into the bowl of busy people and streets. Think of Alice who somehow was here in 1832 at the edge of frontier, at the edge of the Tutelo. Know only that Alice, my ancestor, must have been Scots, perhaps indentured, most likely hungry yet thrilled. Then her sons fled down mountain and their sons fled back and the railroad emptied Patrick Springs. Then their daughters left town on arms of dark-haired men and I left town in stages. The great compromise for me was this farm where trains and banks and schools and cars can only lure me in, a loner on Sundays. ▬▬▬ Roland’s Field Son of a truck farmer out of Weyers Cave, Dad on Sundays, before his school work started, took us on drives. He wanted us to see progress. He liked to look at buildings. So we saw: Pasture after red-clay pasture on a hot afternoon scraped up for the jets of Dulles. An island – Hogs? Bugs? Not sure – where They were Building Something Important. The new, long disappearing bridge that slipped in and out of the Bay on the way to wild horses. And tall cranes settled on sand for a crucifix of church and state where I would never step another foot. But one day they called from Weyers Cave and the truck farm was gone and the white-washed house with the carved cherry door and the Jersey cows and the old dairy barn, all so that small planes could land in the Valley. On trips north, I still stop south of Staunton, think of my brown-eyed Dad who planned a future and escaped the farm, but also kept a clicking clock made of walnut from a felled tree in this now-paved field. And with a polished key he wound it slowly every day. ▬▬▬ Fruit Cake Melody Oakey in cotton apron at the iron kitchen range stirs dried fruit from the Amish in her blue-speckled jelly pot. She sings, and we do too, old hymns and silly verses to bide the time as flour and butter swirl as the sisters polish silver forks. Then Oakey dons her wool coat and rubber boots, walks swiftly in spitting snow toward the shop she visits only once a year. The fellas nod to the broad-shouldered old gal who slips a small bottle and coins onto the counter and anxiously waits for a paper bag. This is all in the service of the Lord who loves grand women and a proper song and the dusky taste of a cheesecloth-and-brandy-cured fruit cake. ▬▬▬ The Prisoners of Rockingham County 1 Pop milks Jerseys and tills pastures pretty much on his own in ‘forty-four. Eldest just entered Italy with a weary brigade. Next boy off to Pacific seas. Three more still in school. Work is hot on the dried-up dirt, dust kicked up by the plow horse and choking tractor. Could use some help. Raleigh down the road, red-faced in the heat, needs strong backs. Word comes of bored big men held two farms up, caught in the Bulge, shipped here. They drop Georg off for Pop, Jeter for Raleigh. Four men shake hands. End the day with hay tedded neatly. Each evening before the truck comes, Granny feeds all four, what with Raleigh’s wife dead. Fresh cream and churned butter on soft bread, apple butter on the side. Thing is, the Millers and the Muellers and the Myers and the Meyers most likely are kin. Yet blood shared can’t overcome bloodshed. Bullets, bombs beat out mercy. Brief slices of fellowship founder on the battlefield.

Song of Whitman I celebrate you, Walt Whitman, reading Leaves of Grass and Drum Taps, seeing as you did. I hear your voice as a melancholy, lyrical drawl while I read your words, as real, breathing and alive today as when they were written. From a hundred-fifty years you found me. Your word has shown me parts of myself, as boundless as earth, effortless, free, timeless. You bade me not to read, but to listen, and thus to hear. You wrote with a new form and structure, and you gave freedom to the world, as sure as the workingmen you exalted. The sawman draws his saw, back, forth, back forth. The typist sets his words, click clack, click clack. The fisherman casts his line; the Christian fisherman brings in men. Inside my mind are a red-fanged, growling demon, and a winged angel ready to do him battle and destroy him. I know that good will prevail. I have seen the men at work in warehouses, on power lines, salesmen hawking wares. My hands are calloused over. I have been them, washing floors, dishes, cooking food salt-of-the-earth, and still rising, intellectual discovery on the horizon. It shines, bright as sunlight upon the library on the hill where I found books, where I found god, where I found you. ▬▬▬ River City, Downtown The power of a river cannot be contested by man, whether by warship under sail, or steam, harnessed for grain, dammed for energy and commerce, or forgotten and neglected. In winter, the sun shines on the river from over the bridge to the west, and the mirror-glass-still water is broken only by its rocks. On a summer eve, those rocks break white caps as the force of nature rushes past, and a man in a kayak journeys through downtown, a block away. In wartime, these waters rushed past a foundry, where hundreds of young women gave their lives making bullets, and armies and navies battled for control of the capital city. And the water rushes farther, to where there was no Virginia, to when Powhatan was understood by all, the power of a river is in the life of its green algae, and herons, and sturgeons as they pass, struggling upstream to spawn where they were born. ▬▬▬ I Never Thought I Would Miss the Mountains I never thought I would miss the mountains. Get me the hell away from here, I used to say. No more trees in the winter, black streaks on the hillside standing out against the white snow, arising for all to see from miles away. No more cold, the kind which pierces and comforts at once, and shows you your own breath, proving that you are alive and that you have more to give. City skyline lies flat, glowing, something us hill-dwellers wouldn’t know, On a street a car horn blasts, tires screech; I never notice anymore, Get me home, to where there are trees in the summer, oak, pear, sycamore. When friends call, I will always answer. I love my new home in the city, but home’s home, too. Strange, it seems. I never thought I would miss the mountains. ▬▬▬ My Own Civil War I want to be proud of the men I never met, my rebel ancestors. Family story says my second Great-Grandaddy was a Confederate veteran, a charismatic, go-lucky old man, a laugh riot, with a long, love filled life that stretched for 97 years. I want to be proud that he gave the best years of his life to fight for what he believed in, that he had the courage and moral fortitude to defend his home, and that he helped make America the strong, united country we are today. But when I see that his mother willed Jack and Jim to so-and-so, and that Bob will be set free upon her husband’s death, I am reminded of my family’s complicity in the great, menacing, unhealed scar that roils my home state and city, and that made America the problematic, divided, troubled country we are today. I want to honor that flag my ancestor fought under, for it was his identity, and when it was time to furl that flag at Appomattox, I want to believe that his compatriots did so, and that most went home with manhood intact in the hopes that there would be no further bloodshed under it. I want to be proud of the progress we’ve made and optimistic that we are now truly the ‘land of the free’ because of the brave. But knowing that my ancestor was not a Klansman is insufficient to convince me that he was a pacifist, or that he knew and believed all men should be free and equal, or that they in the robes and hoods were only a tiny, insignificant criminal anomaly. And when I hear the words ‘heritage, not hate,’ and see that flag displayed on a bumper sticker, or the back of a pickup, or flying defiantly above a busy highway as a warning for all to see, I am reminded that, on some horrifying, unconscious level, ours is a heritage of hate, and that many of the flyers have no idea what it is to live under redlined, long neglected urban neighborhoods which can do quite well for themselves while struggling to survive, only to have the little piece of earth they owned taken away and their community dissolved through urban renewal as a response to white flight. I am reminded of how far we have not yet come, that many still fear for their lives at traffic stops, that some cannot tolerate a name change at a school named after an enslaver to the name of a river, that many still suffer from macaroni-induced diabetes because they cannot afford the turnips and produce others buy at farmers markets, and that when grandmothers, grandchildren, and others alike gather at the base of a spray-painted statue, they are called violent thugs who must be broken up. Yes, I want to be proud of my Confederate ancestors. I want to honor my great-great granddaddy for being wounded at Brandy Station, and his brother who was killed at Five Forks, and their brother who fought near Gettysburg and escaped from Elmira prison. It’s a helluva story. I want to honor them. But to help the nation recover from those contributions to its history, and to understand it, I humble myself to Jack and Jim who were willed to so-and-so, in hopes that Bob was set free, and that I will use my efforts and my talents to give them and their descendants a seat at the table they helped build.

Tex Was Not a Cowboy Tex was not a cowboy. He wore old plaid shirts and overalls and a wide brimmed hat, atop a head of matted hair that grew as thick as thatch. On the hottest days of summer, or frosted up with snow, you’d see him on the back roads or walking through town, and wonder where he came from and where he was bound. He’d take his best friend Lucy. They always got along. He’d make up animal jokes and speak them in her ear as he held on to her halter which was the way he steered. If Lucy liked a joke, she’d twitch and flick her tail, Tex would howl in stitches, slap his leg and wail. They brightened everybody’s day walking down the roadside that way. It got dark early one evening in the fall, Tex decided he and Lucy should head back to the farm. Then down the road came a guy in a pickup with nothing to do. Tex stopped his cow to turn her around. The driver slammed the brakes and with just a foot to spare, skidded to a stop. He rolled down the window and hollered, “What do ya think yer doin’ ya stupid hick? Yer takin’ half the road up.” Tex was strong of visage but in manner mild and kind. He stared into the headlights, there were no words that he could find. Then the truck backed up; ten feet, twenty feet, then some more. The driver revved it up and slammed the pedal to the floor. The metal met with Lucy and knocked her in the ditch. Her ribs were crushed, a leg was snapped, her breathing hard and slow. The truck sped down the road. Tex stayed with her through the night. In the morning the sheriff drove by and knew something wasn’t right. “How’d it happen?” he asked, and put his arm around the weeping man. Tex tried to tell him but couldn’t explain, but the sheriff saw the skid marks and suspected foul play. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Tomorrow will be a better day.” He took Tex to the Black Rose Dinner to have breakfast in the town. As they pulled up closer Tex pointed to a pickup parked outside. On the bumper was a piece of Lucy’s hide. They walked through the front door and at the counter sat the guy with nothing much to do, bragging loud to the waitress at how far the cow flew. The lawman stood behind him and the waitress said hulloo.” He got up real slowly and turned around to go. “Not so fast, save your story for the judge,” the sheriff said. The trial was held on Wednesday, people came from miles around when they heard of Lucy’s killing on the outskirts of the town. The only one who wasn’t there was Tex. The sheriff turned to his deputy. “Take Three Mile Road to Schriver’s Farm. Go down the pasture by the creek. Lucy’s buried beneath the Willow Tree. That’s where Tex will be.” The deputy did as instructed and brought Tex into court, the judge read the affidavit, but he was tired of waiting and his temper ran short. “I have another trial and no time to waste, so get on with it, state your case!” “He killed my Lucy with his truck,” was all Tex could think to say. The judge scrunched up his face and glared. “Which side were you on, left or right?” “I don’t remember,” was the answer Tex gave. “Did you use a designated cattle crossing?” “I don’t know, does it matter, so what?” “I see what happened, now. It’s a clear-cut case of neglect of cow. You’re fined a hundred dollars.” Then the gavel came down. The driver jumped up and did a little dance, but the folks at the trial were riled. As Tex left the courthouse, they took off his hat and passed it around. When they gave it back to him it was full to the brim. The next year the sheriff was elected mayor, a new judge appointed, and the driver was shunned and couldn’t find work anywhere. Tex bought a horse and cart and drives through town doing odd jobs and making up new jokes that he passes around. His horse is his best friend now. He doesn’t worry, and he doesn’t fret, because he knows tomorrow will be the best day yet.

Muse It’s been a while, but Muse has now returned and filled my pen with flowing ink and a sense of purpose as I write this cold fall evening. A sense of peacefulness o’er comes me as I scribe the parchment with my thoughts once trapped beneath the cloak of life’s veneer that hid ill health, depression. Now unzipped this evening as I close my eyes and walk around Bethesda Fountain and its Angel of Waters and cup her healing water in my hands. I am! I said… Oh, how I love to hear the music of the night as stars align in indigo’s vast endlessness… ’Tis here beneath my ancient tree I hear the calm of nature’s symphony as wind sifts through trees’ boughs of ruby red and Midas gold that glisten ‘neath Sol’s light at day before moon’s mellowness of night o’er takes the stage for lovers’ kisses and embrace. I ponder life as I grow old and wonder why that I am I and you are you and how we met and became the wonderful couple that we are. I thank the stars that we walk happily astride as we negotiate the seventies for the second time around in this old crazy world. ▬▬▬ Invincible Such were those halcyon days of youth and beauty and strength and self-assurance I could overcome and defeat anything harmful, dangerous, stupid. Super Man I was a young rascal when I realized I had some freedom despite my parents’ restrictions I had a bike and was in charge when peddling. Off to the shopping center I’d go! Mars in Aries I remember driving while impaired but still getting to where I was going, or when I perhaps had too much beer and skipped class because of a hellacious hangover. wild oats sown I boldly approached life with a perfectly fitting set of primrose glasses. I lived life to the fullest assured all things would work out and I would thrive during those salad days I was king of my castle And its impenetrable walls protected me From my own folly and ignorance Afterall, I was invincible ▬▬▬ Vincible I am king of my patio and man-cave where I can research and write and hope my words will be meaningful tomorrow. I now bask in these golden years as I enjoy the freedom of retirement with friends at vineyards, travel, and cookouts la dolce vita. But who knew such respite would slowly erode as old age infirmities awakened me to the realities of 10-carat gold. I overcame Heart issues with surgery and meds restoring my verve earning me membership in the tick-tock club. But when I lose eight dear friends in the course of nine months last year. I felt as though caught beneath the flaming Hindenburg. It was then I realized living in the 70s was a lot more fun the first time around rather than doing it the second time. After all, I now accept that I am vincible.

Dear Firefly Suddenly, Barely reappearing Where have y’all been? Light dancers Too few returning Tiny bright Phantoms rising Disappearing Forever? Can it ever be again Like those long-ago Julys? Farmhouse back porch Sittin’ with my Daddy Warm sticky breezes Smell of cows Setting sun A thousand fireflies! ▬▬▬ The Old Man vs. Tinker Mountain Uphill doubting destination Climbing steep crooked trail Gravity not the enemy Aching joints instead (Excuse me. What am I doing on this mountain?) Tripping tree roots Gripping boulders Struggling rock staircase (Oh, my throbbing knees!) Gaze skyward to leaf-filtered sun Then run into a tree The air heats I inhale clouds of tiny flies Out of water. Out of spit. (Damn leaking bottle!) Tension: determination vs exhaustion Squirrel! Left foot snags another root Vines snare walking sticks Balance on flimsy bridges Shuffling towards summit The forest parts The view stuns I cannot count the endless blue-green ranges (Do I simply say, “Thank You”?) My shout echoes against ridges Great God Almighty, this old man has done it! ▬▬▬ Journeys Long ago from Roanoke We rolled away House-to-house State-to-state Coast-to-coast (Did you notice Young to Old?) But back to Roanoke! 2,735 final miles Your deep roots finally recognized My promises satisfied Thirty-three-year reckoning Blue Ridge beckoning A new/old place Dear Love To fade to gray ▬▬▬ Reflection on Morning Birds Droplet rhythms after rain Off branches, pergola vines Glistening leaves Concentric ripples in patio puddles Taps from eaves Drumbeats on tin roof Sparkling symphony of splash Invite to birdsong ▬▬▬ Out of Order 2023 Too early Mid-February Serviceberry blossoms show Apple buds anticipate Too early Mid-March Lawn to mow Peeping frogs Frozen Steady flurry falling snow Too late ▬▬▬ Spring’s Climb From my Alleghany porch I watch spring's long uphill climb Born in the valley from winter’s dead debris Budding oaks, maples, locusts Green curtain rising on the dull slope Following warmth Shrugging late frost Stretching for light as the sun seeks north Hardwood resurrection

Dawning of Wonder The real prayers are not the words, but the wonder in a little girl’s eyes. Lately, she has learned to walk alone before dawn. Even at age seven, she has no fear. Her journey leads her through the forest, past oak trees and birches their green leaves beginning to transform their deep greens for red, orange and purple as summer’s last heated breaths melt into fall looming on the horizon. At times she skips across the trail, a mosaic of colored stones that crunch under her hiking boots, one of them unlaced with a wisp of golden rod illuminating the early morning’s soft darkness. She often stops alongside a maple tree whose shaggy bark and she loves to touch as if shaking hands with a giant, perhaps one from a recent nighttime dream. With her curious mind, she bends down to stroke the protruding roots that look like the veins on her daddy’s arm. Why are you not under the tree? She thinks to herself before moving on down the trail. Other times she rests on a splintered wooden footbridge. Under her feet is a drought-thirsty stream bed rather than the sweet song she once heard by a small river. Noticing the soft moss growing on a cluster of grey rocks, she wonders how a plant can grow on a rock. Are they really alive? The tap-tap-tapping of a distant woodpecker serves as the soundtrack for her thoughts here. She wonders whether the constant pecking hurts the tree, or might the woodpecker be the tree’s friend keeping bark-eating insects at bay? She takes one last look at this spot she has come to cherish. Closing her eyes, she inhales the sweetness of the early morning, this gift from the trees, then exhales what the trees need most to survive. Even at this young age, she has learned to offer her attention to what surrounds her, what welcomes her here, in the forest. I am the trees, she thinks, and the trees are me. Could there be any greater joy than knowing this? Looking up now towards the leaf canopy, she cranes her neck almost tipping backwards onto the ground. She laughs. A sparrow tweets. A butterfly lands on a nearby pawpaw leaf. Even the trees smile, their bark illuminated by the rising sun. ▬▬▬ Water Story I have traveled far To reach this bridge On which you stand. Born from the ocean, Lifted up into the clouds, Floating over waves of water, Islands, and even a lush forest Where the bright green canopy Yearns for the sound Of thunder and lightning, My atoms and molecules Forming pockets of liquid That when the atmosphere Felt right, freed me from The dark grey sky not too Far from here. As I fell to earth, Gravity pulling me Down hard in big thick Droplets, I rode on the back Of the raging wind until I saw what I sensed to be A transparent flow of liquid Weaving its way across land Until I found myself joining Others, a welcoming community Of hydrogen and oxygen molecules Quickly coursing their way towards The river I had noticed from above. And when the sun emerged With its warmth, I slowed down, Maneuvering along a path of Broken tree limbs, Rocks, pebbles, clumps of leaves, Until I found myself here under This bridge where your shadow Casts a moment of darkness Before I continue my journey Through an area of skunk cabbage, Feeding whatever tree roots lie In my path until finally reaching The river where the morning light Transforms me into glittering diamonds. ▬▬▬ Down by Lake Anne Overturned canoes rest Atop wooden horses, A set of 2 x4s, capsized vessels Look abandoned here In the shade on a hot September afternoon. Rogue River 14 shows Signs of rust and cobwebbed Decay, its bottom filthy with The traces of seasons past. Several feet from the cool Refreshing lake waters Over a dozen canoes are settled Here in a permanent state But now dry as a desert cactus. Upside down, They lack purpose and function. No oars nearby, They clutter this bucolic scene Shaded by four large oaks, Leaves still vibrant green Though I discover quite a few Fallen by my feet. Too soon For autumn on this summery day. For now, the lake simply flows, Its waves rippling in the soft breeze With no one in sight to stir Things up or even down. ▬▬▬ No Place to Go I’ve seen men like this before Leaning against a wooden fence Beside a dirt road leading Into town or away from it. He Looks down at the brown earth Parched from the drought in These parts. Wearing a dusty Blue jacket, he carries what Looks to be a bed roll on His back. His brown pants With the cuffs grazing his hard Shoes, one foot in front of The other. Is he just arriving Or just leaving? Atop his head, A brown cap shading his eyes From the hot sun blasting down on him. He is alone. Seeming to be without responsibility, Though his thoughts may carry The weight of the world with his heart heavy with sadness. He does not know where He will sleep tonight or Tomorrow. That is not Important to him now. With The midday dust swirling Around him, his hope for A better life, even a chance, Down the road from here Feels as dim as the shadow Of his body against the fence.

En route to my friends in Nelson County south on route 151, the sun had just slipped behind the Blue Ridge, leaving a crisp line of mountain against sky. a shock of elements, stunned by air and earth and the way they lie together. the air glowed, a golden exhalation, the mountains ignited into a dense violet radiance drinking the last wine of day. the ridge heaved up like shoulders, of broad-shouldered men, draped by air, embraced by air, and I am the offspring of this first love. I would lie, open as air, atop all that undulant solidity, I would lie, patient as the mountains, beneath that glowing lightness. even the moon, cold witness eye, was moved and hung low, succulent as a cantaloupe… ▬▬▬ Opossums I dreamed of making love in a hole I had dug full of mud, a world of naked raptures, an animal’s belonging, my flesh woven to time, to earth. I stepped into the woods. the sun sprinkled through oak, poplar and pine, the air was dappled. four black eyes watched me from the base of a tree. two opossums in their silent dance, sanctified, still, watched me, without fear, without challenge. all the naming and knowing were gone and I was a small creature in the forest of the morning .

Serves Four The Industrial Revolution birthed women who thanked their creator for the tin can my mother, a pink-collar mother, embraced the sixty-minute casserole From every waking memory, I played hide and go seek with dollies and skeletons pulled from the closet under the stairs while Granny sat in her green-and-white-striped arm-chair watching all the mothers pass by In her square courtyard, moving to and fro in house-coats and plastic-bottomed slippers pushing wire rolling grocery carts every weekday morning; our cereal-box tv set blared The Golden Girls, Facts of Life, Price is Right all the way 'til noon Nimble as a cat, I ate like a coal miner, hidin' round Swanannoa number five, reading blue fairy tales and red fairy tales and puzzlin' paper puzzle books with my yellow number two pencils sharpened to a dusty-sharp nib We ate Sweet Sue dumplin’s while watching California twins in matching I-love-Bob-Barker tees lose their ever-loving minds over winning trips to the French-Riviera or Swiss-Alps or winning a-new-car or a new-dining-set or even a brand-new-washing-machine I-would-never-act-like-that my granny always said, cigarette hanging from long, arthritic fingers, floral housedress tucked around long, lean legs Later, she mixed together faux Mrs Butterworths with room-temperature margarine stirred it with her teaspoon 'til it was good and smooth she gave me a piece of soft, lilywhite bread, sometimes two — my dipping bread, I always said, oil-slick margarine dotted on my bottom lip Granny was a mystery, a Nancy Drew without any decent clues; she had birthed a baby, my mama but she didn't have a husband; she had lived at the port far away, but my mama had grown up here in town Born in the teens, my granny was one of seven born in the fifties, my mama was the only one born in the eighties, I also was a singleton My mama made sure of that; she had her tubes tied when I was six; I didn't know what she meant by that, other than that I’d been too much to handle; I chose to tell all my classmates all about it I’ve heard it said that women of my granny's generation and in her untidy condition had three options — to suffer a mangled abortion, to suffer a shotgun wedding, or to suffer at a home for unwed mothers; Granny chose none of the three She made a living as a server/cook at White Tower Fifteen whips to prepare the womb, thirty more to zap wifey's brain and fifteen flicks to scrub baby clean, stitch her tight for later ▬▬▬ Death Spelled Out in Ones and Zeros Granny kept stacks and stacks of Reader’s Digests in the corner of the living room, arranged neatly on top of the wooden cedar chest The wooden treasure chest Someone had given her a subscription, she said I read them more than she did Granny said. Reader’s Digest ran a column just two days ago — thirteen of the funniest obituaries that really exist. Reader’s Digest is a website now. You can’t stack websites on cedar chests. You can’t stack websites on anything at all, swimming in an inky-black sea of crimson-hued machinery. ▬▬▬ Sowing Leaves I am rowing rowing and rowing and rowing sowing rows like farmers sow seeds, like farmers till their land, like farmers rotate their bright green crops under the milky-blue twenty-second sea. Granny sows flower seeds, packets of flower seeds, sows seeds in drenched rows, sows seeds in inky-black drenched beds, sows bachelor’s buttons and calendula, cosmos and flax, sowing nasturtium, sows alyssum, sows alyssum like alyssum grows in its natural habitat, like it has been there with her, sitting with her all along. I want to lay in the grass. my arms and legs shoulders and ankles and every small toe the small of my back and the tender spot right where my tail meets my inner thigh all yearn to be planted in the grass, to be allowed to put down roots just as granny's flowers dig tiny fingers smushing into fresh fertile soil the grass has no expectations. needs not blanket nor towel nor sheet. no chair. accepts her as she is. its long, emerald ribbons welcome her touch her embrace. the grass has been with her, it has been with her all along.

The business of the poet and the novelist is to show the sorriness underlying the grandest things and the grandeur underlying the sorriest things —Thomas Hardy 19 April 1885

Help To be used but never held, Watched but never seen, Listened to but never heard, No face, no hope. These are the cries Of the homeless and hungry. Respond to those who are unable To sustain themselves with even The most simple of necessities. Donate food, money, and your time To organizations that help the Men, women, and children in your Town who are in need.

Quiet Heroes Not all heroes wear capes, Some carry mops in buckets While others drive down each street Collecting our discarded junk. Every day, before the sun rises, They are working, cleaning Keeping our spaces safe Their acts go unnoticed But their work is critical. They don't need fame or glory Just a smile, a thank-you And recognition that they are They are part of the backbone of our society.

Simplicity of a Smile “Say cheese!”. A line that is dreaded by most, but it is now cherished by me. I will never forget the day that changed my perspective of a smile. Not my own smile, but a one that truly touched my heart on a day that started with a volunteer event. An outside activity on a beautiful simple day. I thought it would be lots of hard work, with no reward, but that was not the case. It was a child’s bright face and beautiful eyes that captured my attention and warmed my heart. A simple task, simply tossing a bean bag is all I did. Oh how she enjoyed the game! I could perceive her Innocence as her eyes lit up as we tossed the bean bag Back-and-forth to each other. Who knew how the joyous look on her face could change me? Special Needs, they say, and very special she was indeed. To be able to change my heart so quickly, a task I thought impossible. Through her simple smile, she opened my eyes, allowing me to truly see.

Kindness Why can’t everyone be kind? It is not hard, all it takes is just a smile or lending a helping hand. Being kind makes you a better person and can change the attitude of others. Indeed, it can change people’s lives. A person of grace understands better moods yield happier days and more contented lives.

Community Strong On a cold October night driving from near and far Laughter heard as we drove Costumes shine bright Young and old, some bold Spreading joy and banishing fear Youth having fun, bond together as the night grows cold Many hear the cheers as laughter and joy fill the air Evening tires as night settles-in the October crowd slowly disappears Our community is strong with friendships life-long

of Selflessness Being selfless means you think less about yourself and more about the needs of others. The kindness, and generosity, and concern for your fellow person is guided by your altruistic heart, seeking nothing in return other than knowing you did the right thing. A selfless person’s actions to help someone is a heartfelt act of love like chocolates on Valentine’s Day, or serving food at a soup kitchen and anything that truly helps those in need. Such persons are truly Earthly Angels, they help make everyone the best they can be.

Sunshine’s Smile To see a smile on the face of an ill child being helped, or the wagging tail of a puppy rescued from a storm brings me happiness like nothing else. The aura of blissful people can make the sun jealous and the moon respectful as it glides ’round the Earth, because they want to help others find the light of love and joy even in the dank darkness of night’s storm. Just as the stars have guided lost persons to find their way across the desert, so too can we reach out and help others in need and trying to find their way in difficult times.