I Can't Even Tell

I can’t even tell

That the grass was

Dug up

Beside my father’s

Headstone, to lay

My mother to rest

Beside him;

Only six weeks since

We gave up.

There are no more

Scars in the Earth and

Grass under the willow

Tree which weeps over

His stone.  Her grave has no

Stone yet to make it real,

To shake my

Dream state denial.

But her empty house, my

Empty-ache heart, and my

Unheard phone calls

To Mom

Are more than real enough

Wounds for now.

Full

Full on horse happy

Satiated with equine

Nurtured

for the entire week

With Sunday pony ride nibbles

Orphan

Dear Mom,
Last night I woke at 3:17 and
you softened into my dream-drowsy awareness.
I don't remember the
last time
I cried myself back to sleep.
It's been one month since you left
me,
a 51-year-old
orphan.

97 and 3

97 and 3

sum up to 100

at opposing ends of the

same bell curve.

For every 97 of Joy, there’s a 3 of

Sorrow, and time shall decide

when the pendulum arcs

between the two

Squirrel Highway

It’s a squirrel highway

overpass to the Redwoods,

a bird rest stop where

they must hear our buzz,

                feel it through their pronged feet

Face this way

                then that way

then this way again,

one claw expertly anchoring

                as the other lightening pivots

                                swinging red breast around

Crossing and crissing

                faster and faster

                until a blur of wings

                leaves our

Voices to themselves again

Over the road where

We drive our cars

While talking on our phones without

Noticing the act on

The high wire above