Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.
The restlessness
of age has entered me. That longing for more
knowing there’s only less to take in.
When I first heard about it, I knew I’d go. I’ve been showing up for more than fifty years, starting with the Vietnam war.
Was it they’d mostly finished their work,
how the bulls came along this morning, let
themselves be driven back to their pasture
still in ruin with holes dug from last year’s
nine-month layoff?
Perhaps they need the reassurance,
or maybe they’re here to lend music
to the silence of winter
A decimated EPA means less scrutiny for another Flint water crisis, less eyeballs on Superfund sites, and limited ability to investigate toxic contamination after train derailments, such as the incident two years ago in East Palestine, Ohio.
What’s ahead
horses see only
by degrees, the way love ends,
no one touching in the dark.
I wanted to come home transformed
and be surprised by the flickering
in our radically impermanent
robes
I stop weeding, stand still a while, hands on hips,
because it’s back again — that feeling of elation
tangled with grief.
I embrace two rivers, the Changjiang and the Mississippi, each taking a share of my tributary for thirty-four years. Life is a river. The migration from East to West is a way of releasing the self for a confluence of places and allowing the rivers to flow through me and form a shoal of belonging.
The air I take in feels thin, ragged, and rough against the walls of my lungs.
This neighbor to the south of us uses a .22 long rifle.
So does the neighbor to the north.
Grassroots movements, legal organizations, and nonprofits are leading the opposition.
The lesson I draw over and over
is, everything can change
in a moment.
All that you have is lent.
Left in the wake are demonized and demoralized federal scientists.