Louis Rakes The Hedges
Louis rakes the hedges clean,
leaving me with tangled thoughts
watching from the window.
He works with one bandaged arm,
stooping carefully, digging out debris
and carrying it off like a box
full of puppies.
Yesterday I cleaned the hearth
and scattered rose petals over the remnant
ash. Their red lips circle in the white
and ignite flames of memory
where once charred logs stood.
This spring we see flowers developing
in all stages; that common freak, weather,
has torn us again, leaving the magnolia
two weeks behind, and the hyacinths
double-stalked. I will wait
and let Louis comb the yard,
setting in the even parts
and picking up the pieces
of a winter of storms.
And I will wait for another cold day
when the rose petals have all dried
and their scent blazes the dusty air
in the crackling flames of chance.
Switching Glasses
Mine are new, triple-focus
lenses, requiring some getting used to.
Hers haven’t changed since her fourth-grade
eye examination, a lifetime
of fumbling in the dark, zeroing in
on my lips, cleaning contacts.
So now, after fifteen years, we switch
glasses. “You look cute in mine,” she says.
To me, all is equally blurry.
“Wo!” She pulls back. “These make me
dizzy.” We look around—profiles
of curious chickens—then give
each other back. Comfort
lies in our individual worlds
and the infinite getting-to-know
from our views of finite selves.
