Alan: This one could be subtitled, “Monochrome with blue dot.”
Late November: Lamoine, Maine
The yards of Lamoine
planes of mown space
no longer quite grass.
smile no smile on these gardens –
rectangles, squares tucked in,
readied for winter.
Perhaps a boat
trailered and blocked, tight
in blue tarp. Otherwise
not even rows of split firewood
to part the close gray;
homes set just so, wan,
silent in half-light, prudent
beside modest drives.
An almost no-sun tiptoes
meekly into this no-drama,
and makes its way into clouds.
Nancy: Difficult to explain why I’ve been writing on my shirt...
The Old Woman Draws A Map Of Her World
Stone and green.
All the shores, so different.
Canyon wren and hermit thrush.
She ponders Palestrina and mariachi
and decides on the octopus
flashing colors on a coral shore.
Rivers and fish, fossils in the cliffs
or weathered out on the beaches.
As she has always done, she labels
the trees with their names, and the
flowers. Here and there she leaves empty
spaces; her world is still growing.
Growing, elephant tree, manzanita
Amanita, growing old, growing tired
pipsissewa. Tired. Niagara Falls
Bridal Veil falls, she shakes herself
Empty space, footprints, mink and bear
room to grow
a blue-black pool
where it rests
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