Morning at the Marsh
It is a morning meant for mindful meandering
– the air is flavored with the remnants of
melted ice, however untimely for midwinter
January.
Boardwalk birdwatchers bounce around the
bog – a woman swallowed by an unsightly red
coat guides her lens towards ragged branches.
My shoes squelch the sludge with playful
stomp – there is nowhere to be, not even the
end of the path.
I pause, perching on the prostrate poplar –
then perceive a chirping red jewel framed
between branches across the bank.
It calls to mind: childhood mornings in the
crotchety kitchen chairs, crunching away on
cereal – dawdling for cardinals, our state bird.
Not only birds, but the backyard birch I
beheld with its baffling bark – on long drives I
would spot their bold skin, more brilliant than
their arboreal kin.
The delight of discerning species and dialects
of nature – the whimsy, the wonder of being
included in the great scheme of the world.
Here I am now: heftier, and perhaps a bit
haughtier – with the taste of Cheerios in my
mouth as I watch the familiar plumage

glimmer, nestled between two stark white
gatekeepers.
I’ve convened again with the content
companion of curiosity, and consider – what
other unlearned creatures hide under the
overgrown hair of the marsh?

Home, a Nomad
A palette of happenstance brown and gray
Smeared across the bay window
Indefinite texture and coincidental myth
Targeted by the criss-cross of the pane
I nestle in the well-worn nook
Tea grown cold, bag embroidered with mold
Frost-lace tiptoes up the glass
I heave a warm breath to counteract
They remark a blizzard is in the forecast
A midwestern conversational scape-goat
Little do they know, I’m banking on the snow
To render the prosaic nomadic

Lunch with My Grandmother
I roll it over my mind,
The folding of seasons
and laundry
The making of memories
and pasta-based meals
The scrubbing of mistakes
and old chinaware
All of the ways we move along
Quietly and magnificently
Dolloping moments into lives
Which are, more often than not,
simple,
subtle.
Yet, in recounting each Tuesday
And forty-hour work week,
She can’t help but speak around
fondness.