Expecting sale proceeds mid-week, I found
the transfer happened half a day before
the estimate. Now liquid funds abound,
but I don’t have big purchases in mind,
and I should bury assets in the ground
(or mattress or financial firm account)
to cover an emergency that’s bound
to happen soon or sometime else, for sure.
Old worry ebbs today, as coins compound.
(Magic 9)
I used to hold my mask when out alone.
I donned it when I saw, at 30 feet
or so, a stranger entering my zone,
but noted that the other had complete
mask on, no matter who was on the street.
My neighbors thought more barrier preferred,
while I made other sense of fact and word.
Of late the rules are loosening. We’re told
we don’t need masks when we’re alone outside.
I tote a mask to wear where goods are sold,
on public transit, or when crowds abide,
but mostly I can be identified.
My neighbors, though, re-mask at 30 feet,
as if new rules are wrong or incomplete.
(Rhyme Royal)
Our luck was easy traffic, gentle breeze,
and soft blue heavens shot with cotton clouds.
But when we passed the fields that held few trees,
the parch of desiccation lay like shrouds
on thirsty dirt that isn’t worth a plow
this year, with drought and dire threat around,
and odds of fire blanketing dry ground.
(Rhyme Royal)
Outside and unmasked,
bathed in light and rinsed in breeze,
we hugged each other.
We drove 6 hours and the big surprise
was blue and white and vast above the car.
The sky and clouds were tonic for my eyes,
delighting me before we traveled far.
The journey soothed and made me realize
how long I’ve gone with neither cloud nor star,
confined by plague and fenced by walls and trees,
preoccupied with our calamities.
(Ottava Rima)
Last year on March 13 we made the drive,
enjoyed a weekend on our brother’s farm,
returned to face a virus grown to thrive
and lockdown to reduce pandemic harm,
that launched a year and several weeks of strange:
the battle mask; debates about hygiene.
We felt perspective shift and health derange,
in nervous expectation of vaccine.
We still don’t understand the facts or trust
much news, most politicians, rumor mills.
We’re doing what we’re able, to adjust
to civil (not) and pan-infectious ills.
We’re driving to the farm again, today,
as if catastrophes have gone away.
I slept in till 7 today –
a symptom, a clue and a sign
that lately I’m choosing to pay
the price my affections define.
For weeks I’ve consented to play
all roles love and promise assign.
I rose and read myself. I stress-confessed,
and can’t ignore the wisdom of a rest.
My personal computer can restart
itself, without command or aim from me.
My iPad and my cellphone are so smart,
their updates relegate to history
an app or two I bought deliberately.
I purchased the equipment, but indeed,
a phantom partner runs output and feed.
(Rhyme Royal)
The price I pay for shade is bloom delay.
The cost of filtered sun is leggy limb.
The plants are healthy, by and large, today,
but parasols of eucalyptus dim
the light intensity, as redwood arms
and jacaranda branches modulate
the brilliant zap that gooses as it warms.
And so my plants extend beyond their weight.
I tried to do them right. I cut them back
aggressively for winter, and I fed
them nutrients and water in the spring.
Defending them (no toxins) from attack,
I wanted denser roses but instead,
I got this balance-challenged blossoming.
Her skin is as thin as a wet paper bag.
It tears from the tiniest bump.
She’s paler than ghostly, too tired to nag,
and weekly we find a new lump.
She’s losing fat where she’d be better off plump
(although she likes fleeing weight’s curse).
She’s often confused and she talks like a grump,
but thinks the alternative’s worse.
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