Perennial

The first day that shines  

like spring

I walk until I fear

I might get lost

then turn back

on a beeline to the big pine

where sounds of birds

drive from my head

our morning fight —

the same one

we always have

about nothing

important

then afterward

I rake the garden,

        leaves black, sodden, trapped,

        tines of the rake awkwardly

        clawing more fence than leaves

blown to this border every autumn,

buried under every

snow after snow,

pressed until they hold so tight

to the ground

that when I scrape them free

the bare dirt releases gasps

of bright grass as if

for every birth a death

must begin the greatest joy

season of wholeness

Spring is late, even snow

falls where he dug up

a dozen of last year’s 

potatoes, clusters of snow 

and potatoes nearly the same 

size and both deformed 

with nobs and bulges,

the ones falling fast and heavy,

the others huddled under

them near where they were dug,

like a small altar to winter

which saved them for this day

that is neither winter nor spring

that is perfectly falling
and hitting the mark

without expectation.

the you and the I

I think what people want

is purity like

skin

that contains the blood

and prevents its spilling

oceans that slap

the land’s edges back into shape

minds that understand

the difference between stranger

and friend

the comfort of separateness

unlike

the taste of this apple

that bears the provenance of the refrigerator

the yellow pepper

that crossed surreptitiously

into this bite

which should rightfully be

only rain, limb, bird

unlike how you have bled

into me who might otherwise 

be understood

in the middle of the night, the moon

Have you lain

open

under

the moon’s lily

through

a window

and felt

on your

pillow

how she loves

your face how

like your face

hers

how every

face under

opens

in yours?