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1
The mud's fingers,
small worms
multiplying in the white
soapy cream
of thistle seed
along the garden beds
where yesterday
I planted lettuce seeds:
Red Oak, Red Romaine,
Golden Bunch.
2
I could sit here
and pick
ripe strawberries,
just,
the first,
humming a note
as sweet
and tart
and sudden
as the accidental kiss
you share with a lover
one afternoon
and know
that everything
is right.
3
Slugs are kind of disgusting
and destructive
but when one
prodigious specimen
pokes its Martian antennae
around the corner of the old barn
after the rain
in the most timid unhurriedness
imaginable, I can't help
but love it too.
in response to Noah's poem of June 10
I want to see everything today – the puddles after a rain, the worms inching through the dirt, even the mosquito’s hovering over the bird bath that needs to be emptied and filled again with fresh water. All things should be equal, but are not, when I judge. I hate the itching that follows a bug bite so I hate the bug, whose job it is, to live, as I am to live. I forget – oh, how I forget, to just be and to just see !– to experience without pressing against the moment with other moments that are long gone. So good to read your poem this early morning before I head out to work because, from this spot in my room, to the door of my destination, are worlds to see, to smell, to caress with my eyes and ears – oh, how I forget to love with all of me. After so much rain, there must be hundreds of slugs outside my door, hungry as I am to live.