Homecoming
No one looks you in the face here,
even though the walls have eyes.
See, the plants you remember
by sight and smell and feel
from childhood. Oleander,
honeysuckle, ivy still grow
here, the climbing plants,
the vines that trail you
down the sidewalk, casting
their purple shades on concrete,
shifting by the time of day;
the green that seeks a finger-
hold in stone and knows
how to widen any crevice.
No, they don't really look like
eyes. But you can tell. Stranger
come back home, you're watched
like you might try to take
something back with you.
Dufflebags
Remember the dust of summer
& worn-out sandals, all
packed up in the trunk now,
as we're backed up in a tail-
gate rush down the mountain.
Remember a fawn on tiptoe
through the meadow. Pine trees
measuring the wind with upside-
down pendulums. And the short
nights dizzy with stars.
Back home, we'll open the bags
full of dirty laundry, heavy
with scent of what we've left
behind, a dust that clings
till next year's summer.
Rain in June
The pasture's meshed with purple
vetch. Filigreed, you say,
no, embroidered, it's that dense
all the way from highway
to the drainage fence. It's grown
extreme. It glistens lavender
in late June sunlight,
it's out of place
all over the place.
It should be all dried out
and gone, no more than seed
already dreaming rain.