Is it a sign of wisdom or defeat,
to shift the corporate goals from an attempt
toward better to resistance and retreat?
At what age is a character exempt
from images that trigger self-contempt?
Perhaps at four and seventy (or less),
a goal to not diminish can preempt
old habits – may no worsening impress.
Of course the kids are lovable and bright,
but one, who here is nameless, rings my bell.
They each caught how to build a sentence right
but this one utters language awesome well.
If they have an idea but don’t know quite
the term to use, they’ll ponder and then tell
what’s meant by fabricating a new word.
My heart expands. My brain is lit and stirred.
My daughter photos roadkill that she meets,
and maybe that’s why I paused yesterday
to pay attention, walking different streets,
to this expired squirrel. But the way
his body rested, in supine array,
exhibited uniqueness to my sight.
His chest and belly shone in soft display.
I never knew the underside was white.
We promised more than once that we would tell
each other if we noticed any sign
of age-compressed perspectives that impel
one’s personality to snit, repine,
or tunnel vision, blurred and inward-turned.
To forward and beyond we made our pact.
But treaty’s gone to needy – what we yearned
to hold is fading lately, wrecked and wracked.
We quibble nearly every time we talk.
I want to be reminding you, but how
can I make you attend? I feel you balk
and hear you argue almost daily now.
I want to keep that promise, but you sink,
offended and too crotchety, I think.
A month ago, the ferns beneath the tree
were old and rusty-looking, so he chopped
them down, and left brown clumps for me to see.
I moved toward him as if I would have stopped
his shears, but then he pointed to the wee
and pin-curled fronds beneath the spears he’d cropped.
I’m glad I let him prune and pulverize,
for now new chartreuse growth eye-gratifies.
Self-conscious after surgery, and more
inclined to stay inside than normally
(although he’s always liked his bedroom floor
and often opts to play internally),
I spent some hours in his company,
in talk as usual and loving play.
I don’t claim that the cure was purely me,
but afterwards he went outside today.
About your love I’m not competitive.
This friendship has to have some room for me.
Our conversation’s argumentative,
and seldom now includes affinity.
You sort yourself and so refuse to be
dynamic – you won’t grow or even bend.
And lately you refute our history.
I think you might prefer another friend.
I woke to petals scattered on the deck,
and raised my gaze to note the flowering
that seemed to open overnight – each speck
a sign that still surprises every spring,
a harbinger of fruit the weeks will bring
that only birds and squirrels want to eat:
small plums that leave their juice on everything,
and like the petals make me watch my feet.
The surgery was recommended now.
A minor operation on a kid –
enlargement and a skin graft to allow
reception of more sound. The parents did
consent – I had no power to forbid
and wouldn’t have. But what a stressful day.
The hours dragged. I sensed my heartbeat skid,
a generation and a bay away.
I heard some clunks against my eastern wall.
I woke but turned and soon returned to sleep.
Nocturnal yardmates sometimes race or sprawl,
and often use those drainpipes as they creep
from roof to fence to deck to hunt, by crawl
or pounce, and fight or scavenge for their keep.
This morning I saw remnants from their toil –
a trail of crumpled shards of kitchen foil.
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