American robins, no picnic;
a woman knocks,
a door-to-door missionary, and asks
and I don’t know,
I think of the leg of lamb.
What do I think: the difference,
the branches, the purpose of life.
They preen, gesture so-so.
Possible answers; think
of the branches
just like a comedian.
No. No, thank you.
Things are the next vaudeville;
the purpose of life’s
about what they always were,
an abrupt change,
not to be asked.
I’m not picky about temperature;
such questions are nothing.
A woodpecker watches
what happens (there is no purpose)
complains, thinks
of the loneliest life.
The robin gets it
if you’ve never been,
if the rose petal stares
at the robin's surroundings
and multiplies it by ten.
Goddesses from the cove
sit at a picnic table;
that’s a good thing.
Here’s the church;
maybe she hands me the pamphlet;
here’s the steeple;
fold your hands.
The color of paint is winter
into the olive trees,
the musicians. The season
is early green replaced
by a linden.
You have lace in a rose;
here on this porch
the missionary is a charm stone,
handkerchiefs stuffed
up her sleeve,
sitting in my chair;
I've found
in the dark, eyes
that are brown
as this is not all the doors.
Listen to the tiny September
and have no reason
frogs sing. There are images
to come in or go out:
the glowing pale green.