“You and the Park”
I am looking at the bark of a pine tree, wondering if it has always been orange and purple and only now do I notice.
Children’s voices from two yards over giggle across the drive. At this distance, it sounds as if the youngest is squealing over the inequities of freeze tag:
threatening to go tell Momma:
threatening to quit the game.
You can hear the highway from here if you sit very still and don’t hum. And there are birds. Red ones. Their songs aren’t as pretty as some of the more plain ones, but you can’t have everything
And speaking of everything, I wish you were here.
“Death by Drought”
The dust no longer hurt us
And we quit looking to the sky for the breath of the moment;
our demise revealing to us,
saying gently we would not be going back to where we were.
A lack of water resolve strangely brought peace,
and some of us were able to sleep.
The grass growing beige beneath our feet
crunched as if we walked in snow.
Our yard alone lost six trees and all the Gardenias.
Leslie said it was impossible to sprinkle
the lawn enough to keep it and besides,
any spot that was green was some how out of place.