in winter the trees
show their secrets

a life incredible, vivid, excellent.
in winter the trees
show their secrets
at the little grey house on the corner
the spirea has begun to bloom,
delicate white blossoms creeping mistily down its long, slender branches.
after weeks of dry weather —
or merely a tease of moisture in the form of fog
or snow or sleet or drizzle —
the spring skies have finally broken open
new green leaves unfurl tentatively from last year’s dry brown canes
Read Morethe winds scrapes rough on bleaching bone
and the whitened trunks of weathered trees
the fog hides in the hollows
Read Morein the poppy bed
there’s a stubborn weed
i never can seem to kill
midway up the hill
the neighbor’s weeping fig
is dressed for spring
a gown of bridal white blossoms
shielding leafless branches.
if i had any rage i took it out on the lily bed and its web of ingrown roots the fruit of thirty years of spawning tigers i scythed and hoed, slicing through sod separating innumerable worms from their other ends and cleaving through the rusty orange roots that choked the ground until, at last,…
Read Morethe sharp blade pierced the greening grass
and shovelfuls of soil revealed wakened worms
shrinking away from the light