Are you looking for a sign?

Hard to make Beginnings

                             Sometimes

Takes courage and falterings

                   A hundred times.

Flickering flashing floundering

                  The muse flatlines

From too much zigzagging and reading

                    Between the lines.

Pleading, bleeding, conceding

                How many sometimes

Before succeeding…

                  Read the sign.

                   Again.

The Gloriousness of June

I THINK
I will write you a letter, 
June day.
Dear June Fifth,
you're all in green,
so many kinds and all one
green, tree shadows on
grass blades and grass
blade shadows. The air
fills up with motor
mower sound. The cat
walks up the drive
a dead baby rabbit
in her maw. The sun
is hot, the breeze
is cool. And suddenly
in all the green
the lilacs bloom,
massive and exquisite
in color and shape
and scent. The roses
are more full of
buds than ever. No
flowers. But soon.
June day, you have
your own perfection:
so green to say
goodbye to. Green,
stick around
a while.
         -- James Schuyler

James Schuyler has written the perfect poem: a love letter to a day in June. Not just any day. Today.

June green is unlike any other, vibrant and alive, still nourished by the spring rains, not yet ruined by hot sun, nor eaten by insects. Next to the June green, the peonies are more vibrant, the sundrops more sunny, the daisies more pure. Yes, June green is more.

The gardens are planted, red pears and green apples are growing, cherries are ripening, birds are nesting, perching, and singing.

The wild primrose opened in Sunday’s sun and surprised the surrounding motley plants. Her dazzling yellow perks up the shabby shed and makes the neighboring weeds look more stately. 

The new gate opens wide and the new fence keeps the fruit trees in and the riffraff critters out (so far).


If I stand by the garden gate I can watch the grape vines growing, their tendrils curling around and around. The grapes are too small still to be more than a vague hope. Will they be sweet? Will they be juicy? Will they be jam or wine?

The cherries are yellow, blushing pink. I ate one today, still sour, still small. Bluebirds are nesting in the eaves of the porch; wrens are nesting by the door. They can have some cherries as long as they share the deep blue June sky.

Dear June fifth, you are glorious. You are enough.

Love Song

Christmas angel

Wishing you love, joy, peace, and hope this Christmas.

i don’t want a narrow view of love:
you love me and i’ll love you
— no —
don’t want just my needs, wants, don’t needs, don’t wants.

You give love unconditionally
not caring if i love you back right
or if i slip back into that
blind sight of loving you wrong.

there are countless languages that speak love
and i want to know them all
give them all
freely
to you.

i want to fly right over the chasm
where ordinary
freefalls and plummets;

instead you get my imperfect botched love
tainted by pride and selfish fears
while you give me
thirty roses
every day —
the extravagant
exquisite
excruciating
reminder
of those lost thirty years.