Poems & Journal Notes
A Sweetness
I’m remembering how fit, how strong
my father was well into his seventies.
He found no task daunting, and always
knew ways to build and repair things.
Yes, he was sometimes grumpy,
but I recall the last time we sat
outside in lawn chairs below the enormous
oak: our conversation ranged widely,
and there was in him a sweetness
I’d rarely seen. One thing that saddens
is that I never pressed him
to speak Italian, which might have
brought blossoms to the Old World power
and persistence he gained from
his Italian parents.
==
In the old days
I might say: “I’m
70 years old-dig it!”
But these days things get
dug in and dug out.
You don’t agree?
Well then, you can just
bug off!
===
The stream water swirls
around boulders in the sun,
creating a confluence of brightened
shapes-like a phalanx of ants
on their way to important business.
And just below them there is a lumpy
rumpus where the water tumbles
over small mossy rocks.
The ants are headed there,
where it is like a playing field: imagine what might get tossed or caught.
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