These quiet mornings add up.
I walk around a new anchor
Line spun by the spider overnight.
An ant hides under the
Leaf it carries.
Bathed in the light of stolen time,
I feel a god looking at me
Through the stained-glass leaves of the tree.
A bumble bee, drunk, flies so close
The hairs on my arm feel the breeze.
The garden insists:
Make choices.
Belonging is hard work.

Morning (Mid)

The light comes in behind me,
Making soft shadows on the
Wall ahead. It’s quiet.
What should I do about
The snails and slugs in my garden?
The sun keeps rising,
It’s time to eat food and get coffee.
The heat will come soon
And there’s much to do—
Pull tender mint from the earth,
Balance the budget, visit old adobe
San Felipe de Neri church with Carol.
The day is heavy on me; the heat will come soon.

This Old Wooden Fence

I want to be this old wooden fence,
And all the life inside, and all the people
Who have ever been here.
I want to be the family who built it,
I want to be the black cat who jumps over it,
To nap in the lavender.
I want to be the sunning snakes and the dragonflies,
The sleeping grubs and the clipping prong-horns,
And the Carboniferous era sea creatures, too,
Waving fan corals, swimming brachiopods.
If I sit still long enough inside this old wooden fence,
I stop wanting and
The whole world comes to me.