An Ode to My Grandfather

I cannot see a bumblebee
Moth hovering on transparent wings
Without being brought back to the field,
Now new houses, where I first saw them,
Buzzing bee balms while we watched,
Connected through nature, bird watches
In the winter where we saw
His goldeneye-hooded merganser hybrid
Floating on the Saint Joe River,
Taking me to see the upland sandpipers,
The round, brown birds whose nesting site
He had discovered on the very day
That I was born. Where else can I trace
My love of writing, my love of nature?
The strokes that weakened him just showed his strength--
And yet he chose to die before my mom
So he would never have to face her death.
To me, he is the man who found the nests
The upland sandpipers made, who raised
Raccoons, screech owls, cecropia moths.
The man who taught me to love birds and nature
And not to be afraid. He's who I love--
The one who showed me moths
That look like hovering bumblebees.

The Sea's Current

Storms bring the seal out to deep, the current
Seas filled with swarming fish, the sullen shark
Taking advantage of them, the pink shrimp
Its size, the crab its mood. The current now,
Bringing life even to the unpleasant,
Resisting as these fish against the shark
Swimming too close to the shore sand, who hopes
To scare up food, the fish afraid for once.
The moon is low, the shrimp and crab can hide
In rocks, in tight enclosures that secure
Them from the greedy, crafty mottled shark.
The fish is crabbed by what she sees and can
Not understand. The shark swims by and sees,
Yet leaves her there, untouched, unharmed, unloved.

A Soft Mud Rain

Your cheeks are wet as fallen forest leaves--
You're sad as rain collecting in the dents
And puckers, soaking soil, wetting trees--
And you, so melancholy and morose.

I used to stand and stare up at the rain
On summer days,those  cloudless summer days,
Enjoying silver sunshine with serein--
The water stung my cheeks and rivered down.

And nothing in the way you look at me
Reminds me of those happy days. Alone
And looking through the window from my book--
Formerly so cold, so indifferent.

But everything I see in summer rain
Is now just gray and damp and cold, so cold
And I wonder what caused the clouds and pain
That's rolled in over me--and over you.

The Misogynist

He is alone at thirty-five, a man
Alone and single, never married--he
Has heard from every woman every excuse
And reason why they will not date or love him.
"You think you're better than me," one said
To him, though not exactly true--repeated
More accurately by another when she said
She thought he thought he was "Too good for me."
He wondered why women saw themsleves
This way, in a shining sun that hid their beauty
From themselves, lighting bright the flaws he overlooked
Because he loved them (or, so he thought).
Others would not leave abusive men for him,
Loving their abuse (he thought), makeup used to mask
Unwell what they could. Too old, he heard
Another time, "You don't fit into my plans."
And when his friends would wonder why,
Without themselves trying to help him
Meet someone who would love him, he was alone
When he was, "Such a great guy,"
And "Such a good man," who would
"Make a good match." But when his friends
Talked among themselves, they asked each other
"If you weren't married, would you date him?"
No one would even lie--any more than she'd explain.
And yet, he knew that they all lied when they
Said they'd try to find someone good for him.
So, he was left alone at thirty-five
To wonder when the next excuse he'd hear
Was, "No, I can't. I need to wash my hair."