In the face of what I cannot control I crave innocence
and return to what always brings consolation in grief,
plein air writing, whereby I must leave myself behind
and focus on what is around me, as I sit beside the
bird bath, at the patio table, in the back yard.
Journal notes, May 23, 2011. The robin dipping her wings
into the bird bath and raising them and splashing water on her back,
pure light on the peach tree leaves,
those tender young onion sprouts,
gurgle of fountain water, a breeze floating down
through the trees and brushing lighter than a kiss
on my cheeks, softening my tension wrinkled forehead,
I breath in.
I cannot control death. The old red wagon throws shadows
of wheels across the bare soil. The green sprinkling-can points
to the north. Lenny will be buried in the north.
I beathe out.
Purple petunias. Green baby grape clusters. Pink geraniums.
Death will take these some day. Hot sun heats my head,
soon, sweat will drip down into my eyes, salty, bringing tears.