In search of story


Disconnections: June 29.18

My first-ever hydrangea

glows like dawn

with bashful blush

old-timey charm,

a stranger to me

and I to it

each to the other


The first year is cautious

not my garden yet

we come to acquaintance

in slow etiquette:

gardeners must


while gardens the gardener




Disconnections: June 24.18

A willing suspension

of everything,

deliberate slow reach

daring, cautious quest

rising skyward from some restless molecule

within —

if you’re lucky

the grass prickles your back

clover tickles your heels

summer earth pillows your head

if you’re good at it

you seem mere debris

senseless —

the fine art of watching clouds

is not quickly attained.





Disconnections: June 16.18

Was there a merry-go-round in your childhood, dear reader? Ours were wooden with raised metal handles that marked the whole into wedges like a cut pie. Those handles were the thing. You glommed onto one and ran, full throttle, in circles, making the merry-go-round go faster and faster until — at the exact right moment — you could catapult yourself onto it. Timing was everything. It was an art.

Fast forward to something called The Roundabout. It’s been de rigueur in these parts to build The Roundabout everywhere there is a clogged intersection. So now, instead of driving in straight lines controlled by traffic lights, we drive in circles controlled only by the sense of timing (and patience) in other drivers. Even for those of us who have jumped on many a merry-go-round, The Roundabouts can be daunting.

So one doesn’t enter The Roundabout without every sense on the alert, and yet I didn’t see him coming. There was a terrible sound, an awful jolt, and for a brief second my car seemed airborne. I got broadsided by someone trying to jump on the merry-go-round. Thank goodness there was no one in the passenger side.

That was Wednesday, and I am still taking inventory of my person. The doctor says I’ll feel worse before I feel better. Meanwhile, I reflect on that fine art of jumping on. Were we really meant to be jumping on in cars?


Disconnections: June 14.18

Garden icon

myth and man


as watering can

the story goes

his whispered word

was carried by wind

his followers heard

is he today

sculpted in stone

because he invented

the first smartphone?



With no disrespect intended to Il Poverello, whose bemused expression watches over the pond

from my neighbor’s yard. I just wish he wouldn’t be so welcoming to the chipmunks.



Disconnections: June 12.18

Basking in my sunshine

snuggling on my fence

this manic excavator

is pure impertinence

taunting me, Goliath,

feigning innocence

as though his bright-eyed smallness

masked malevolence

but I know his evil habits

— curse his tiny hide! —

he’s only biding time

’til Goliath goes inside.