Some day soon-
when we have nothing left
-while gulls hover and caw-
we might scavenge the shores
for bits of dropped sandwiches,
crumbs from families on holiday.
Looking away from broken branches
spooning just below the water line
of last season’s storms,
we might see the sun rise
over the copper and green tree tops.
Dancing in the unconquered sun,
we would unfold and float
out to meet one another
among the water lilies
-if the fates allowed.
One swatch from Arethusa,
-lingering in the deep-
These were lost words
printed on tissue.
cut and glued,
then pressed smooth
by delicate fingers
over a picture
of a fig and pomegranate.
A memento pendant,
she would wear
next to her heartbeat.
An empty calzone-it’s ingredient free-
and one and one is apparently three.
The tap water washes the soot all away,
forgetting that kittens can continue to play.
Roots spread out sideways instead of down
and warblers and magpies,they don’t make a sound.
No cheeps, or wee-zee-zees, or wenk-wenk-wenks either.
No noises from outside, we all take a breather.
Now, the yeast in dough mix is bubbling to rise,
and a circumspect pumpkin hides out in the skies.
Wearing a mask and velveteen cape,
its serpentine movements provide an escape.
While the red sauce is rolling, doubled and boiled,
with smoked mozzarella-its well-olive oiled.
The calzone sits there empty, ready to eat,
soaking up smells from the painted concrete.
There is a cellist
in the garden
practicing that one piece
about a swan.
Nearby, a swan glides
forward and back
across the pond
between the cattails
and the bulrush.
She focuses on her technique,
less bow pressure
staying close to the fingerboard.
And the floating swan,
she nods in rhythm,
fluid in her liaisons,
to avoid harsh changes in direction.