I wonder why and how cicadas sing in unison as they do
their loud hum rising and falling as it does almost
as one, as if led by a tuxedo-wearing conductor
a flash mob of them hidden in their various perches
in tree and shrub joining their voices in chorus.
I wonder too whether I will notice their
closing performance before autumn falls
whether there is an actual last day and if so when
it might be and finally whether or not I will
ever stop my wondering and if so why.
Sixty new things I said I’d do
in my sixtieth year now
a burden a chore an albatross
not the thrilling party I’d envisioned.
The fried pig’s head so unappealing
the various cocktails disappointing
the left side of the bed unsettling
my whistling ever yet sub par
the skydive still looming
and with five weeks left
forty-seven down, thirteen to go
the inner nagging does not let up.
What else what next what’s new?
I’ll try making marshmallows
dye my hair purple
learn fifty new words
and when at last this year is over
return to Life As Usual
no promise no pressure no pact
each new encounter a lovely surprise
undertaken for the sheer joy of it.
Miles rearranged is smile
slaphappy
tongue-hanging
teeth baring smile
flat out
full on
unbridled
ever loving
effervescent
buoyant
bouncy
good-natured
Miles.
Slap happy to see him she
threw her arms about his neck
reaching on tiptoe to do so
every wrinkle of the past smoothed
temporarily out with the sheer surprise
the childlike guileless smile spreading
without thought defense or hesitation
the happy upturned edges of her mouth
plumping up her cheeks like a baby’s
the eyes, their four eyes and likely
those of all who watched feasting on
the details each of the other and all of it
just all of it with the sensation of standing
beneath a cool waterfall tumbling over
washing away every speck of dust and grime
filling their very pores with a tender freshness
giving Hope to everyone looking on.
Grudging mist of rain
teases and torments the trees
all dying of thirst.
One tiny whiff of a certain cedar shrub whooshes me
back to Huntington Street and a picket fence around
my grandparents’ yard where we kids made our own games.
My sister and I picked plums from the tree at the back fence
the neighbor advising us to make baskets of our skirts
my grandmother then scolding us for doing so
and using some choice words for her neighbor.
She did make anyway jars and jars of plum jelly
that none of us particularly liked but ate halfheartedly.
Two white Adirondack chairs sat in the backyard
always filled on a warm summer evening by the adults,
my grandparents, my parents or my aunt though
we girls sometimes perched on the wide flat arms.
A square contraption of a clothesline that turned,
a cloth sack of wooden clothespins, an apple basket
lined with cloth that my grandmother used for laundry,
a chimneyed red brick barbecue where my grandfather
and later my aunt grilled bratwurst and hot dogs,
all those things long ago fallen into disrepair
and discarded, the adults of my memories dead and gone
and surely the cedar shrubs from which all this springs
have since died of old age and been replaced by
azaleas or blue hydrangeas.
Placing myself on a long quiet strip of land and sand
somewhere, Cape Cod, Maine, Newfoundland
some beach, some rocky shore removed, remote.
I remember two late summer days spent alone
on the farthest tip of Cape Cod, the quiet,
the breakwater of huge stones arcing out
into the sea leading to a spit of land that
when the tide came in would be covered over
the frisson of danger as I stepped across
the elegance of the flat square stones underfoot
the luxury of being alone in that place
taking my own time, needing neither
to come nor go nor eat nor drink by
another’s lights, clock, whim or desire
needing nothing at all but that exact place in
that perfect time with only the sea and the shore
for company a beginning I did not recognize then
for what it was–the graceful commencement of my present.
My summer pursuit of a wondrously succulent
perfectly tasty homegrown tomato has so far yielded
only close seconds and I, eager and desirous, move
from stall to stall at the Farmer’s Market, bag in hand
relentlessly seeking, searching, oh yes that’s right
I am a seeker a pilgrim in search of that Holy Grail of the garden
a perfect orb of delectability misshapen or blemished about to burst
yellow pink or red exotic varietal heirloom or solid predictable standby
no matter at all to me you farmers you gardeners just serve me up
a sweet acidic meaty juicy yum of tomato and I will hand over my dollars.
Screen of cicadas’ hum lifts falls lifts again
Blue dragonfly pauses on my fingertip
Sun presses relentlessly down
July July July.
Bastille Day is the birthday of a friend
I no longer see no longer hear from
one who moved on made other friends
felt no need or desire for what I had to offer
after all our intimacy and playfulness
the meals cooked together, confidences shared
the easy particularities, the elegant gifts.
I’ve done the same to others though
I should know better having felt
the pain of being the one who is left,
the one no longer needed, the one
surprised by a sudden deep hole.
How carelessly we move through life
how brutally keeping each our own small
universe spinning as needed sloughing off
nonessential bits at random with the
heartless nonchalance of cold untouching planets.