Exhibits

 Cherries Waiting

In the orchard at home

cherries are red and

waiting for beaks

or fingers to pluck them. 

In the orchard at home

the plum tree has never

borne fruit.  An oriole

gathers its sighs.

Wild plums are content

and laden with tart fruit.

They thrive on sparse rain.

Afternoons they’re all napping. 

By a neighboring pond

two sisters dangle their feet

waiting for blue gills to

gently brush their ankles. 

In the orchard at home

cherries are red and

waiting, but the sisters

are watching for fish.

Sharing the Lead 

A trillion times worse

than naughty children

we fight over dark life blood

distilled from ancestral sands. 

Wanting it all

we melt the ancient glaciers

to race from place to place

for the green paper dollar. 

We deplete our planet with wars

polluting the quiet of falling snow,

the joyous barks of geese 

as they glide in constant motion,

 sharing the lead.

From deep in the Earth

clean water flows.

Bluestem and buffalo grass

shine.  Sunlight feeds us

each spring, summer, fall 

and throughout the winter.

When will we stop fighting,

know our enemies as friends?

When will we learn to share

like the geese?

River Song

My childhood street led to River Road.

Men with cane poles caught catfish

to eat with their families in small gray shacks 

on the bank of the muddy Cumberland.

In the 1950s the City tore them down 

and moved the people we called

 “colored” to Lincoln Homes 

on the other side of town.

They widened the road

 and renamed it Riverside Drive.

  Fields of corn and tobacco

grew on the river bottom land.

Driving across the bridge

I watched tugboats and barges

floating logs and coal as

“Over the river and through the woods

to Grandmother’s house” 

we’d sing and go.

 I never swam in the source 

of water I drank,

but the river is in my blood. 

At twenty-five I crossed the Mississippi

and fell in love with the infinite sky.

One summer day on the wide Missouri,

 my man and I canoed to an island.

 While he followed the songs of birds,

  I waded into the current,

dropped to my back, rolled to my stomach,

let the river take me to a wilder place.

A shovelnose sturgeon swam

 in warm clear water.

A green heron glided

into cottonwood leaves—

apparitions of the paradise Dakotas lost

through treaties, dams, abuse. 

Back through minnows I waded

against the current to join my mate.

A canvasback floated by, 

and the river sang me

what it was and could be,

meandering down, down to the sea.

 The Snow Bird’s Nest Egg

 In spring they leave their

 brushy, southern winter homes,

bound for the Arctic clime. 

Here on the flyway, watch for

white crowns at prairie’s edge.  

They eat mosquitoes and spiders 

wherever they find them

and always bring songs. 

Have you heard

this quintessential snow bird’s

pink of alarm? 

In July, lucky Alaskans 

thrill at their trills —

dear-dear-buzz buzz buzz

and their mating flutters.  

On the tundra, mothers line 

their tiny nests of grass

with hair of moose or caribou

to cradle speckled eggs 

half an inch long.

They turn their eggs 

and hatchlings

to keep them warm. 

Will fathers find enough berries and bugs 

in surrounding shrub to grow their babies

strong enough to fly? 

As Earth’s climate changes

 the white-crowned sparrow’s nest egg 

depends on us.

Autumn

Looking down

on the golden trees

from the helicopter

as she lay behind me

on the gurney,

I said, Mother, I’m here with you—

I wish you could see.

It was a near-death vision

of the earth we loved.

She died from a fall

that perfect fall day

she might have chosen.

 In autumn

when the sky is blue

with floating clouds,

I hear her say,

Where there’s blue sky, there’s hope—

Cumulous clouds mean it’s not going to rain.

The day she was buried

she rode for the first time

in a white limousine, north

past Spirit Mound to her grave.

Behind her I knew

I could not stop death.

But each autumn

when there’s gold in the mulberry leaves,

I hear her say again,

There’s no more beautiful view anywhere—

I love you more than anyone else.

 Anticipatience

Even in seasons of drought,

finches turn yellow-gold;

and cherry trees don

pale pink crowns

more fragile

than glass.

We rely on the wind

and clouds

to provide.

Yet thunderstorms

cause updrafts.   Air

rises and cools. 

Ice crystals form

and grow into stones

too heavy to float.

Hail smashes

the blossoms of spring.

Yet after the storm,

sun dazzles Earth’s jewels,

 warming the backs

of turtles, Mallards, snakes.

 Earth grows tipsy in spring!

A turkey struts

with tail fan wide.

We breathe in

wild plums’ sweet breath.

At night we check

the forecast,

fingers crossed that

we won’t get frost.

Days we’re lucky,

rain gently washes lace-

like flowers and lime green

leaves as emerald grass

 glows.