Sour Grass (from a personal collection "Of Childhood")

I squat down on the wrong side of the house

where the electric meter lives.

Legs effortlessly folded over flat

butt behind feet

back bent forward to balance my tiny body.

I pick through the wet grass

so small and close

to the blades,

it feels as if I am looking through a microscope.

Bugs and dirt live here.

The chain linked fence behind me

lets rays of sun peek through solid burgundy slats 

like they're leaning in to tell me a secret.

I reach down to pull out translucent bright green stems 

tops yellow with flowers

roots drop the soil

that held them up.

I taste it.

Generational Song

In the dark cold, on a cement floor,

fingers fondled over dusty stored

records in the cleared-out garage.

Now empty, memories of music playing in a full house,

small children running from room to room

holiday laughter humming over conversation.

I thought of you all, no longer with us,

lost in time. Rhythmic warm embraces of friendship

dressed up as family. Redolence of Christmas

songs yelling out. Crackling fireplace

with years of photos. Pinnacle of possibilities

before the deaths stack up in closure to an end.