Trying to Write a Nature Poem; Waiting on the Muse

In truth, it smells a medley

out here:

pipesmoke, rainwet grass,

rabbit shit scattered pollywog

across the damp gravel driveway,

the carbon footprints of SUVs

driven past on 194

(gas fumes spilling into

the ether).

Bees hop from flower to flower,

cross-pollinating,

unintentional third parties

in an orgy

of stamen and pistil.

I wait for something

interesting

to happen…

some woodland creature

to come up to me,

stand on its spindly hindlegs,

and say “Hello there!

I am Nature. You have experienced me.

Congratulations!”

It doesn’t happen.

Guitar notes reach my ears

from upstairs (noisy

neighbors).

I am still waiting.

Existentialism as Evidence of Mercy

What wonderful fractionalities

pepper our moments!

How strange that such small

insignificances

should butterfly up along

the gradient of time.

Picture this:

My chiropractor aunt,

collecting some coconuts from under the auspices

of palm trees (this is in Puerto Rico),

cracking them open

THWACK

with a machete (their juicysweet guts flowing outward)

under the shelter of some plantain trees

in my grandmother’s garden,

and me

standing there wide-eyed

on the pavement lining the grass,

watching.

I wonder what I would be like

had I not seen that,

had I not been there

for that small moment of familial bonding –

and this when I was still quite young.

Or this fond memory:

me, sitting on an old ripped-out

armchair from ATW’s van,

listening to the creaking of the drumracks

(almost splintered by now)

and wondering which trees were cut

(and from where, exactly?)

in order to make those racks…

trying to listen to the history

of all the things in the room.

The relief comes in seeing

that we have such a

Merciful Mover,

else wouldn’t we have

tornadoed everything by now?