Day 6

i didn’t know whether

i believed in souls ’til

i first saw one leaving

just a day or two after

granny placed his hand in mine

so’s she could get some crackers

and answer the phone --

she wouldn’t leave him

’less someone stayed to hold

his hand,

to hold him there.

even a body that never moves anymore

changes

when his breath runs out

like an unresolved chord,

a foreign stillness

on his

paper skin.

plant me under butterfly bushes

when i go.

all the best deaths have

butterflies.

don't say any prayers;

this ain’t no altar call.

tell the stories that make

you feel good

and play living people’s music

and kiss somebody,

and go on home.

Day 5

Along the trail,

tossed into the grass:

a blue t-shirt,

red striped cotton boxers,

two white socks and one black.         

So many questions.

A looter? Trickster? Tweaker?

Unlucky? Covered in ants?

So many stories.

Afternoon delight?

Her clothes all muddied,

he offered his pants and went …

naked…?

Nah.

True crime?

APB: Suspect is shirtless,

barefoot, commando.

Victim missing one black sock.

Hm.

Patriotic, if nothing else.

Day 4

Oh bless the soul

of that poor zealot

first to liken blooms to chastity,

who must have turned his eyes

from both the women

and the flowers –

all he missed:

The regal iris

anchoring

the wedding centerpiece

boldly thrusts his yellow

stamen out

to titillate the bees

and when the

gentle gardener

scents her holy Rose of Sharon,

she sinks her face in

nature’s most superior

ovaries.

In the parlance of the flowers

the hermaphrodite is queen;

the blossom that is

all in one

is “perfect.”

Look it up.

Praise be

that nature puts no stock

in privacy

or we’d overlook

this springtime bacchanal.