Another Spring a-

bout to be. Still House Cove brims.

Mallards line the rip-

rap, quacking over

each other. You liked it here

last year. Love takes time.

We had no time. Soon

volunteer gardeners will

make things bloom again.

“When peace comes we are made to wonder if we have been gifted with a godsend.” William Desmond

[Work-in-Progress]

Enough! I do have

enough. Easy friends, quick smiles,

generous gestures.

The ache of Springtime!

Sheer waste of blossoming trees,

pear, apple. Time’s gifts.

I get it. I own

nothing, am nothing, waiting

on nothing but God.

In vain. I grow old,

stunned to see so clearly what

I’ve taken for granted.

A kind of peace, yes;

beyond understanding; yes,

these floating blossoms.

Work-in-progress

People don’t like you

if you’re fucked up: blind, lame,

troubled: they look a-

way. Old girl friends, gone.

Solitude’s companionship,

the other you—true.

The birds, the neighbor’s

cat, watching the birds, looks at

you as you walk by.

To the cove, then. Move

from your own to the ducks’ deep

mind reflected there.

Metaphysical

desire is a desire for

metaphysics: not

tonight, damp and chill.

The possibility of

something else, a hope

not of thought thinking

itself but of something more

real. Tomorrow we

come together so

to praise an altogether

other, fleshly love.