Ash Tree

I pray for our Ash tree. It is 50% of our view from the screened porch we adore. And, it is in trouble. It may be infected with the emerald ash bore that eats away the leaves and branches of the Ash tree. I can see that about a third of the tree is dying. Oh, horrors. Come on Ash tree we’re pulling for you! They say that trees can talk and that must mean they can listen so I’m thinking killing thoughts for the emerald ash bore and speaking healing helping words for the lovely Ash tree we loved at first sight.

The Two Chairs in the Garden

by Jack Ridl

The obligatory nap has disappeared / into the light that falls after 4pm. / It is time // for the sweet blue of cornflower, / the muted p
alette of mums. This / is something I love: the season // between seasons. I feel at home / within this turning, summer's heat / dwindling into the mellow nowhere // of sixty-five degrees. Cold coming. This / space with no particular demand, no / order to cultivate or repair, no wood // to bring in, no seed to plant, no need / to hope. Just here, in a safe hint / of later: cool inhale, the gentle // clatter of acorns on the porch roof, / the chattering argument of squirrels. / There is a certain stillness in this small world, // the light lying across each unshaded / petal, rock, branch, the faded paint flaking / like haiku from the two chairs in the garden.

Thunder Snow

Cold gray mornings listen to the birdsong of mid-March and slips of tulips push through the ground as we zip and button our winter coats.

Woodpeckers hammer hollow branches within the maples, sweet gum and oaks along Walnut street marking 
the territory of our routine walk.

The time of day points to spring and a sharp breeze reflects snow against the tattered old elm and the weeping spruce moves in interpretive dance.

A new season sounds within snow showers and daylight saving time. The sky layers seven shades of gray and snow falls white as sprinkles drip wet on the dog's back.

In this moment with snowflakes the size of duck feathers we are silent within sound visions of magic---

Birdsong as silver shards rain as hollow drumming mixes as thunder vibrates the snowy sky far within, above, pushing us home.

Today would be blue

If I were going to draw a picture today it would be blue. A nearly spring day holding the first sustained warmth that we have felt in months.     66 degrees and the small piles of glittery black ice will surly melt away. Today is blue with a sky dependably above and the sun placed exactly so by degree and geometric pleasure of arch and straight line intersecting in precise usual-ness.

Early Spring

Well under

the black snow mountains

by the side of the street

covering the sidewalk

narrow nubs of green fingers are

seen along the edge of receding chaos.

We see them first the tips

then long narrow fingers

of daffodils. The sun of

early March holds

hope for growing things for

all breathing things for

all sentient beings

in this moment of

breath. Come

sunny day

we salute you

dance within you. We

greet our winterized neighbors as

doors open and

noses twitch and

lips turn up and

feet step out     again

into the world as we balance

on spots of concrete

the wet of melted snow.