When Things Like This Happen

...I have to wonder why I spend so
much time worrying. When your number's up,
it's up.

Death is all around. It makes no distinction
with race, gender, age, socioeconomic
status, ethnicity or character. It doesn't care
if it's a beautiful, clear, sunny day or the most
bitter day the planet has ever known. It doesn't
care if it's midnight or 2 in the afternoon. It certainly
doesn't care if you're minding your own business or
actively seeking it.

*

Yesterday afternoon, as a local company was
preparing to unload a tractor, something
went terribly wrong. The truck, trailer,
and tractor were parked in a driveway. As
the John Deere came off the trailer, its
weight caused the trailer to lift in the air
which sent the truck, (which had hauled
it to its spot), to start hurtling downhill.

The truck went down a lane, crossed a highway
(missing several obstacles that could have
stopped it), veered to the left (which kept
it from hitting a house), and plowed right into
a mother, her 10 month old son (whom she had
on a swingset in the yard under a shade tree)
and her 4 yr old daugther. The mother and 10
month old died instantly. The 4 yr old is
expected to survive. The report just kept
mentioning what a completely freaky accident
this was and that nothing remotely similar
had happened in recent memory.

*

So, there she way, enjoying the shade and her
children, when this unoccupied truck comes
straight at her. Geez.

*

Regarding Anecdotes

I am sure I never
placed a jar upon a hill
in Tennessee, but I walked
up a hill to a party one night
in Tennessee, if that counts,
and as the party wound down
(or the party goers fell down),
I found my way to a garden,
deeply scented with rosemary
and lavender, and I lay down
upon an old lawn
chair thinking I was alone
with the garden and the night
only to find this very young
man, who was full of booze
and small talk, who had come
from the alleys and attitudes,
who was dark-haired and quite beautiful,
hovering above me, making somewhat
laughable passes at me, there in the chair,
in Tennessee. And so I rose
from the chair, his hands
a strange comfort beneath the smooth
white pits of my underarms,
and at the height of a moment,
I slipped and he fell,
and the chair remained.
And I don't think the garden
had any regard for either of us.

(My thanks to Wallace Stevens)

After the Sun Sets: The Call

My brother calls. He speaks love
and I think means it. His tired
voice, harried but real, gently probes

into what little is left
of my sanity. Memory is this strange
bedfellow (I say to him as I try
to explain the mother I knew),

who lies there beside you
in the near morning hours
when sleep has chosen to visit

another, perhaps more worthy,
friend. His voice gets softer,
softer even than the flesh
of my newborn grandson.

He's trying to reason with me:
me the unruly Virginia Creeper
curling around the delicate blossoms

of an unusually hot summer; me the relentless
crop of ragweed infiltrating the barren
brown fields; me the perpetual low
hum of a thousand hungry mosquitoes.

When I can bear no more of his kindness
or reason, I make an excuse to get
off the phone: The ribs are burning,

the yard is burning, the flowers
are burning, the house is burning!
burning, I say! And in his pragmatic
way of knowing what cannot be known,

he says: It's late. Put out the fire.
Water what can be watered and saved,
let go of the losses beyond your touch.

Late Night Elegy

I scream without sound
and what I say is this:

I am the cobalt blue bud vase
on your window shelf, devoid

of buds; the yellow dandelion plucked
from the yard, invading pervasive green;

the dying bleeding heart in the shade
garden, my time over for a season.

I am the cat’s fur, smooth and silky, hairs
flying in all directions as you stroke Me.

I am the collared puppy, making my way
despite the obstacles, to relieve myself.

I am the rice pilaf, fresh oregano and chives
sprinkling my body, ready to be eaten.

I am the load of laundry souring in the wash
tub in the basement, waiting to be unloaded.

I am the last puff of your cigarette, the end
now a punitive reminder of your transgressions.

I am the ocean at night, lapping still at the edges
where children and grown-ups alike played

for a few hours beneath a blazing sun. I am the guitar
in the backseat of the car, needing a new string,

waiting for the touch of your fingers, for the blood
of your fingers, for the life of your fingers.

I am screaming with no sound. I am the knowledge
that most screams, despite their urgency, and in light

of their need to be known, are never heard.

Lay Down Your Weary Tune set to Photography of Miranda Jane

One of my favorite Dylan songs ever...comforts me...

"And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings

no voice can hope to hum..."

"I stood unwound beneath the skies

and clouds unbound by laws...

Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

Struck by the sounds before the sun,
I knew the night had gone.
The morning breeze like a bugle blew
Against the drums of dawn.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

The ocean wild like an organ played,
The seaweed's wove its strands.
The crashin' waves like cymbals clashed
Against the rocks and sands.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

I stood unwound beneath the skies
And clouds unbound by laws.
The cryin' rain like a trumpet sang
And asked for no applause.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

The last of leaves fell from the trees
And clung to a new love's breast.
The branches bare like a banjo played
To the winds that listened best.

I gazed down in the river's mirror
And watched its winding strum.
The water smooth ran like a hymn
And like a harp did hum.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

Roundabout

Another song I can't get outta my head. Alas, more to come.

In and around the lake...