First response to suffering: Because I have suffered, I don’t care about the suffering of others. Second response to suffering: Because I have suffered, I don’t want to see others suffer.
Spring: Plastic bags snagged in the stubble field are turned into the soil.
Good house: / sparrows out back / feasting in the millet. — Issa
Two mylar Valentine’s Day balloons are stuck high in my neighbor’s silver maple. They aren’t just an eyesore; they pose a threat to area birds. This isn’t how you tell someone you love them.
Dried hydrangea blossoms stumble along the culdesac, the wind’s playthings.
Snow. Wind. A pair of red-winged blackbirds clings to the crabapple.
You can tell a lot about a person from their detritus.
I come to know you through the things the wind blows from your yard to mine.
You once held the mylar balloons that quiver in the silver maple.
Your inflatable packing is strewn across my yard like entrails.
I walk around picking up your branches, your receipts, your skiffs of tinfoil.
Take my birds as a sign of goodwill. Let them sing you back to joy.
I’ll retrieve your balloons with a cherry picker — deflated hearts that announce your love.
Your plastic will become my plastic. Your glass, my glass. I want your caps, your lids, your Juicy Juice boxes and their delicate little straws. Let it all blow my way.
What’s this? Your pill sorter. The chambers are chalky and taste like salt.
Have my watering can and two-tiered birdbath, my chipmunk and his major and minor hoards.
You crossed the boundary long ago, so take what you want. This leaf. This seed. This wagon. This hoe.