BETWEEN CARROTS AND PEAS

Three of us work diligently pruning,
plucking errant weeds. We talk of

our pending lives away from cousins
and brothers, arguments, and beliefs.

The wind is strong and comes from trees,
blows around our feet, sleeves blouse

into wings, aprons puffed like balloons
feet turn into broad leaves.

We believe we are in an updated Oz.
The sun sends streams of light; we jump to catch

the ray as it begins its ascent. We fly with
butterflies, moths, a flying fish, a crow

slips into cluster. Bugs eaten by a wing.
A grandaddy’s long leg sizes up the adventure.

The only vestige of the future he sees is the place
now bare brown. The soil lonely for the cost.
.

DANCE OF WHITE PETALS

It was a stiff wind 
blowing
the fates of time, 
back and forth 
over every rock, 
thorn, 
and branch. 
We want to believe 
that fate will 
break for a breeze, 
it looks more 
like hope 
than reality. 

From my window, 
the world
looks in crisis 
especially 
on white petals 
like the innocents 
who dance
in the Oz story. 

The sing-song 
blossoms haven’t 
a chance 
in this conundrum 
of coil and curve
of wants and needs. 

But they will sustain 
breathing 
smiling 
when our loss 
is too heavy 
to swallow.