building boxes

feed the clear band of tape into the tape gun

mind the jagged spikes of the cutting edge

stand the empty shell on end, bottom side up

fold down flaps (whispering raspily against inside walls)

press the gun against the side

let the tape find its hold

pull against its gentle tug, up to

the upside-down bottom

lay it smooth along the seam between flaps

bridging the gap, forming a new surface

a new base, sturdy, that won't give out

won't open underneath and drop its load

with a bewildering crash into the unknown below

the gun growls, but not in protest, 

readily reeling out adhesive

down the opposite side

now to apply the teeth, push them against the taut line

straight as you can

smoothing down the final tail

then lift, flip, drop the box

bottom side down

an upside-down drum

an empty room

four thin walls and a floor

ready to fill with whatever cannot be left behind.

ripping out the flowers

 freezing temps are here

so today the landscape guys

rip out the flowers

lining the walk below 

from my window I see him bend

and yank entire plants up

chucking them root ball and all

into black plastic garbage cans

shoving them down to fit more

he makes quick work

of a twelve foot stretch

vibrant blooms peeking out 

from the can as he hoists it

to his shoulder and hauls it away

it seems such a waste—

a merciless, unnecessary razing

but these guys know their work

must know that in a week's time

the color will be gone

the flowers dry and dead

theirs is the preemptive mercy

of harvesting before the beauty fades

Dormancy

 Delicate reds and oranges

blaze to life on the hillsides

overshadowing this sleepy valley

drawing my lingering, longing gaze

every time I walk outside

I almost hear a silent chant

floating down into my waking dream

come up, come up, come up

Somnolescence holds me down

trapped here on the valley floor

looking back and whispering

I will, I will, I will

knowing full well that when I do

it will be too late

Melting Pot

 The Great American Melting Pot—

In order to melt, things have to get hot,

but lately, in spite of our heated debates

nobody seems to be melting these days.

Rather than melting—or softening even—

everyone's hardening, just digging in

the heat glances off hearts harder than stone

leaving us cold, angry, alone.

So despite scorching heat in increasing amounts,

it seems Mr Frost could be right on both counts:

Flaming others online with consuming desire

we'll all freeze from hate while the world is on fire.

Rescue

You leaned against the wall, feet
off the ground, propped on chairs
pushed up to the table, giggling,
chattering, continuing the giddiness
that had blessed today's breakfast, while
I buttered my toast across the kitchen,
attempting to keep up conversation, to keep up
with your good cheer. Then, 
somewhere between "Hey Google" 
and the reliable response, the switch flipped. 
A breathless, playful call for help, transformed
into a panicked, full-throated cry. 
Your balance had shifted. Everything became
precarious, unpredictable, threatening.
Google blithely rattled off the answer

to my now utterly irrelevant question, 
and I could only stand staring like a sailor
watching a sudden summer squall swamping the decks.
Those waves swept us both, powerless, overboard.
Feet safely back on the floor, you glared,
tearfully condemning me for  my betrayal:
How could I just stand there and watch,
consign you to the sea, to the depths,
and not save you? 
Survival was small consolation. 
Mutely accepting your wordless accusation,
I hoped only that I would be given another chance
the next time you need a rescue.

shut the door

I can shut the door.
Outside of that,
there's little I control,
but I can shut the door.

I can close this space
and trap myself inside.
A gentle push is all it takes.
I can shut the door.

Empty cubicles,
oppressive, bleak, and still
feel less ominous when
I can shut the door.

Feel like giving up.
Quitting. Had enough.
Closing up brings calm.
I can shut the door.

snow on the tulips

It always snows at least once on the tulips
my aunt used to say...

... at least I am told she used to say that.
I'm not sure it was something she said
more than once, and that once was to my mother,
a kind of  "welcome to Utah" moment to help mom
deal with the realities of making a home in a new,
unfamiliar state and climate. The way she remembers
that maxim year to year shows just how much
she must have appreciated having family around
to help her adjust.

What I remember Aunt Denise saying was
"Seeds! Bring me back some seeds!" her eyes
alight in the dim kitchen of her Sandy home,
just weeks before I left for Italy. She wanted
real Italian tomatoes and herbs growing
in her own windowsills, an authentic Mediterranean
garden in the middle of Utah.

It sounds like a simple request, but one
I was wholly unprepared to help with
as a clueless 19-year-old, who probably couldn't
have found out how to get seeds in my hometown,
let alone a foreign country. Her quest weighed on me,
worried me for almost two years; what would she say
when I came home empty-handed?

In the final month of my mission, on a rainy,
quiet day in Livorno, in a dark library near
the cathedral, where I checked my email each week,
I learned she was no longer waiting for them,
no longer waiting for anything, and that she would
never speak to me about the seeds—about tomatoes,
basil, oregano, or even tulips—again.