Rounded mounds of
salt bruised snow
fill my yard
Clearing out
a winter storm
is not so hard
Used to be
after snow
I’d man the tools
Shovel and scoop
and treat my back
somewhat cruelly
Now I have
an electric tool
to blow the snow
The sculpted look
has left my yard
for a softer flow
When I come in
from a snow cleanup
I’m still quite fresh
Electric tools
are the way to go
for old frail flesh.
Sister’s voice on the phone
jars me from my lethargy
write to him
years are never kind
to ancient tumors
barely sentient in
abandoned tombs
The construct
that encased him
was not
of his own making
he inherited it
from our father
his older brother
write to him
I did not
could not
blame him
for anything
but deciding
I blamed him
I cut into
the rotting
wrought iron facade
the mouldering stones
and found
a garden
flourishing
These bricks have felt the sun rise under Caesar
those walls across the valley glistened then
some eyes some hands have planned and planted trees here
and poets sang the song I sing again.
Each inch of land and every inch an atom
has been directed to its certain use
and this for olives, that for grapes is planted
and so it’s always been ’til bees refuse.
The bear so far away sleeps locked in winter
and forests lakes and rivers clad in ice
but in this valley years flash by in minutes
and Caesar’s entourage slept here last night.
My song is done, the valley lies in evening;
and in the dark hear Caesar’s heart still beating.
