By: Don Thompson
These tottering gravestones remain
after all sorts of weather—
unlike the bones buried here.
They’re gray going black by now,
blotched with off-green
like moss on the wooden markers
worn nameless years ago.
Spendthrift wind strips the trees,
scattering innumerable leaves—
worthless as Weimar paper money.
You can feel the effects on your nerves—
by ordinary annoyances.
In this season, you have to search
deep in yourself to find
something that will keep its value
after the improvident year
has gone bankrupt.
Every dark morning, an owl calls—
not open diapason,
but the wheeze of someone worn out.
Another bad night.
This must be an old bird,
losing his edge, slower—
no longer beating the odds
Almond Blossoms Again
Cold, but less cold, and for weeks now
the hives have been stacked, dormant
beneath bare trees.
But this morning—blossoms!
Someone should knock on the bee boxes
and tell them the good news.