… rantings of a depressive procrastinator. Did I mention, I write? …

Let me out the door while spring is soft

Let me out the door while spring is soft
dawn at a low slant
beneath the elms
watch the sun
define slight cobwebs’ strands drifting
off electric lines.
I’ll take my cup
where cottonwood fluffs pass like dreams
across the air
sweet and squinny
trail through flight paths of tall mosquitoes.
I’ll hose my neighbors’ leaves off
the walk in dappled light
water chives in pots
and geraniums,
leave puddles for the bower birds’ morning ablution.

I recall Grandfather—hoeing weeds. He moves with grace his laborer’s body, rough hands tying tender fingers of tomato vines to bamboo canes, like a father bandaging a knee.
I hear him in the cornrows planting marigolds to thwart the cutworms, clucking in hentalk, tossing potato peel into their pen. A hose drips on roots of yellow rose.

And I can hear Grandmother—past the screen door
pushing firm small hands into dough, an eye to the stove where
bacon fries and biscuits brown in the oven, humming the hymn from last night’s church—the one that calls lump-throated sinners to the altar—makes quiet tears streak believers’ cheeks—every eye closed, now, every head bowed, “Juh-ust as I a-mm … “—she hums in cadence with the scrape of pans, past the screen door.

When spring is soft I hear them
In a yard they’ve never been
In a year too far they ever thought might come
The old ones here in the low slant sun.

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