Suellen Wedmore



It is improvised & rambling, the screen door broken,
              the pipes rattle, the shingles are loose;
the bedrooms are stacked with broken drawers:
              some are filled with chocolate, some smell of sour milk.
              Some of the rooms wear broken toys,
              like jewels on a shelf, some have closets
              stuffed with Eeyore impersonators,
              Winnie-the-Pooh lookalikes.
Our marriage can’t find a stapler, a paper clip,
              a pin cushion or a pair of scissors;
              it misplaced its billfold, lost its driver’s license,
but listened carefully as the English-accented guru
              on the GPS described the route home.
Some marriages reach the finish line in a month
              & are quickly on a bus looking to race in another town,
              but this one, in cut-offs and mismatched socks,
              keeps rounding the track,
              a hurdle at a time.
This marriage has an un-mowed lawn
              with milkweed blooming
              in the corner of the rose garden.

              Dandelions flourish.
This marriage came with a recipe for dandelion wine.

after Jane Hirshfield



Socrates said. Hummingbirds, I think,
imagining tiny wings fluttering behind my eyes,
but at my age (70 dogged years), I don’t confuse

a flurry of feathers with accuracy:
yesterday I wandered through a supermarket
in search of an ingredient for a favorite recipe,

remembering only that it began with T. . .
Tabasco?. . .Tapioca?. . . Tiger balm. . . ?
and failed to notice the bundles of thyme,

smelling of earth, dewy fresh, artistically
arranged in a nearby produce bin;
and in conversation, reaching for the name of a park

I visited last summer, I retrieved Yom Kippur
Yosemite, with its clear streams and sequoia groves,
secreted in a dark corner of recollection.

One-hundred trillion synapses make up
the human brain, like knots─someone said.
Perhaps the mind is not a wire cage,

but macramé: square knots, full hitch
& half hitch ties, fashioned by a deft artisan ─
If true, please, God…Yahweh? ( Omnipresent she?)

loosen some bonds, tighten others, until
nothing can escape & an octogenarian
might prevail. Cormorant

or chili con carne; Porsche
or peanut brittle. I’ll sort it out.
Life, feathery in my hands.