Someday I Hope Violets Grow

Someday, I hope violets grow where I am buried
and a tall, shading Elder tree to tend
the tender Spring Beauties in April--
not for my sake--no, I won't be there
and not for my beloved ones
who will know that's not where to find me.

The violets, the shade, the Spring Beauties are for you--
you, who might wander by, taking in
the silence of stones and the peace of violets
under the Elder tree amongst the elders
who are not there--who have gone on.

Boyhood in the Era of Aviation

With boys, everything flies:
baseballs, footballs,
paper planes, balsa wood gliders, kites,
remote controlled drones.
Dragonflies dodge flying fishing lines,
the pond an inverted sky
where herons take off and land
like silent planes.
Boys fly bikes on downhills,
coattails flying,
yellow dog alongside
flying down the grassy berm.
Sleds fly on snowed hills
and leave sublimed vapor trails
all the better for flying down again.
With boys, everything flies:
summer days and snow days
and holiday vacations
and most especially
time.

Birds of Winter

How bold the birds of winter--
black crows performing magic
upon bereft fields, jays
with stolen summer on their backs
taunting the solemn sky.

Sunflower Rejoicing Haiku

Lone Sunflower in a Soy Field by Stanley Crum

Outstanding in soy

green yields yellow's rejoicing

sunflower joy face.

The Devotion of a Child

Bring me yarrow and daisies

gathered among the hay,

graced with stems of clover, 

blessed on a mild Sunday.

Bring me stones from the creekbed

where salamanders run wild

polished smooth and guileless

as the devotion of a child.

Bring me childlike wonders.

Let me receive them with joy.

Make my perceptions pristine

as a scrape kneed, scapegrace boy.

The Old Ford in Snow

In the silvery dark
on a night besnowed hill
the usual silence
of snowfalls is filled
with the whir of an engine
riding the ditch
plaintively rising
and falling in pitch.

Watching the snow fall
like unhurried stars--
merciless, heedless
of bald-tired cars--
I unload my worries
into capable hands.
Joe will return soon
with truck, chains, and plans.

I back down the road
that I just failed to climb
to sit by the wayside
passing the time
with wandering thoughts
on the travail of snow
on road weary tires
awaiting a tow.

The old Ford in low gear
sporting locked differentials
makes short work of tall hills.
We have all the essentials:
Home, boys, and car in the drive, safely towed.
We feel the elation
of conquering the road.

Secrets I Wish Were Mine

My river is not my river--
my shoal, not my shoal.
It shares with me its unhurried waters,
thoughtful sycamores,
questing vines and courageous willows,
silent under sky, meditating
on their time under the sun.
And I, I scribble these secrets
I wish were mine
always knowing they belong to water
that will give them away to sky.