When The Glass Water Bottle Spoke

I see all the plastic bottles filled and shiny,
pasted labels over clear water within. I’ve

never been jealous of that crinkle sound,
sad little ache after the last drop is gone.

Always wondered what disposable meant,
dented, crushed, twisted, one on top of the

next, in bins, trashcans, on streets. Others
tossed off boats, or tide taken away from sand

into sea. Gulped by curious pelicans hungry
for more than digestive death.

Me, I like lips that touch my rim again and
again, tender sips when I’m brimming with cool

life-giving liquid. But I’m a romantic, I believe
in everlasting love, that you will want me forever.

My Dad Makes A Walking Stick

Sometimes he will just stare 
into layered forest, like a 

surfer watching waves. Look 
closely, poison ivy, ferns, dogwood 

flowers. Walk with him, see 
downed limbs, branches sprouting 

green, but soon to die. Notice 
these things, the fallen are

hiking companions. Fractured 
Virginia wilderness, hickory, oak, 

walnut, redbud, wood that he studies 
to know. Even before death some are 

stronger than others. Always has 
a serrated folding saw, he holds it 

steady, cuts five or six feet, bits of 
tree dust drift with dragonflies. He

carries these pieces like shouldered 
fishing rods. In the basement, whittling 

knife separates outer bark from cambium, 
sanded before brushed with lacquer to 

dry, then shine, touch the earth again, 
reflect the gleaming sun.

April Again?

first thought of Simon and
Garfunkel, angst, new love like
uncertainty, showers, flowers
and better months ahead
sun stays, longer days of
green grass, eggs, hidden
chocolate resurrection, rebirth
believers, earth day dreamers
ecology’s return to the beginning
before we lost our ozone layer
still unknown, how it ends
whether April begins again