A Swede Road Morning

Rhododendrons

in the pink dawn

soon to blossom

a robin has the lawn to himself

the valley is a bowl

of bird song

protected by evergreens,

red pines planted by grandfather’s hand.

the distant mosquito-sound of

some farmer in a tractor

spraying poison on cherries;

it’s morning on Swede Road

and Blacky’s on the roof.

Pale moon in silver sky,

mushrooms fruit

through sodden leaves;

no coyote chorus

or bobcat wail

nor woodcock waking wings

this morning.

an axe head in stump

handle weightless hanging

dew drops dangling.

planted the forget-me-not

by the creek,

everyone says it will

spread like wildfires.

through hay fields

and over-timbered lots

that now only grow berries.

the grass needs a mowing,

and spikes of green

indicate garlic in neat rows;

teeth in the fertile mouth of mother.

resting head on pine needle floor.

finding less can be more,

finding rusted knife

in grandfather’s vest,

arrowhead in creek bed,

brush lush soil

from fossil shell stone

in field;

hold it, smell it,

place it in the crook

of the magnolia tree