Broken clouds
Broken clouds
28.4 °F
December 12, 2017
River Reporter Facebook pageTRR TwitterRSS Search


these snow-sumptuous and barren vegetable beds
remind me of the coming heat, the gritty sun beat
the fruit flower, green leaves, the canning steam
and i wonder how much we will need by summer’s end
of soil, seeds, sprouts, sweat

as spring gets on, i know it’s not just heat
but light and dark that conduct the spark of leaves
the sustained note of the open bud that murmurs the arrival
of long-light, the firefly-lit, slip of night


“Politics is an organized, publically sanctioned amplification of the infantile itch to always have one’s own way.”
— Tom Robbins, “What Is Art and If We Know What Art Is, What Is Politics?”

DNA tends to hold sway,
in spite of goodness, Thomas J.
Alex Hamilton redressed his vows
through dallies with a lady’s wows.
A miracle dwelt in Grover C.
admitting extra paternity.  Read more

Getting Into August

July 27th
the Universe’s longest day
I feel it

will this day never end I asked myself
I reply  Read more

Beneath the Soil

Pick up a newspaper, turn on the t.v.,
look at the mirror of our lives:
another newborn thrown in a garbage can,
another bomb blown by the terrorist hand,
listen to the radio, listen to the streets
of humanity trapped in rush hour, choking
on the fumes of violence, choking on fear,
gagging on racial tensions, gagging on hate,
reeling from war to war, staggering ever closer
to our own destruction,
there seems to be no way out, and yet...  Read more

Dirt 9x

I’m talking about Dirt.
Clean Dirt.
Dirt you smell,
Loving the aroma.
Dirt you get under your fingernails,
And don’t mind going to bed with.
I’m talking about farm Dirt.
Nature’s Dirt.
Unadulterated, unprocessed, Unfiltered Dirt.
Dirt that is a home for
Worms, insects, roots and vegetables.
Dirt that makes me,

Early Morning

I walk early in the morning
at first light, the sun in promise.
I move into the world a blank slate,
listen to the sounds
aware of the smells
open to the surprises
of the awakening earth
joining the scene of a leftover dream.  Read more

Moondust in the Loam

I am back, in a field
with freshly stirred dirt
back in the dirt that sustains me
Between rocks and earth,
my toes feel the moon inside
When in the end we fall
and are scattered deep enough,
we know we are a part of it.

Black Gold

The earth had settled after brewing for ages,
simmering down to a rich, black soil ready to draw
the very best from seed placed within its shallow furrows.
They stretched like rows on a chenille bedspread toward the horizon.  Read more

I Am Not a Gardener

I am not a gardener but every spring when I lived in suburbia
I purchased flats of pansies, marigolds and impatiens.
Impatiens thrived through the entire season,
had little luck with pansies, but I loved
how they twisted and turned toward the sun.
I was good about picking off dead blooms,
enjoyed the gold and orange marigolds long into fall.  Read more


Decisions—flowers, tree,
how, when, where.  Read more


As you dig
More and more
A variety of things
Is in there galore  Read more


till, sow, weed, harvest
hands gloriously dirty
tending life

Grow (a haiku)

With the patience of
Water, seed, soil and my love ~
Is that a stem, Sun?

Planting Season

The edge of winter is fading as
Patches of white melt to brown.
Throw open doors and windows to
Breathe in the changing air.
In grey mornings of early spring
Trudge the mud to work the fields.
Speed the plow till the earth
Is once more covered in vibrant green.


I fold the wealth of compost against the grain
of impoverished earth that is my flower bed
of spoiled seeds.  Read more

How to Keep a Secret

Turn up the music.
Turn down the lights.
Pick up a poppy seed with tweezers.
Pink or red — how can you tell?  Read more

The Buzz

Weeding wet gardens,
sweat pours from pores, drips from tips,
and calls mosquitoes.

My Fingers

My fingers dig deep.
The moist earth yields.
Once separate, now united.
We are one.

The Language of the Seasons

Summer came and she danced to the music
of live bands at county fairs,
and the Delaware River spoke to her of romance
and childhood dreams,
her youth melting like ice cream
on a hot August day.  Read more

Whispers on the Western Front

I have never been good with words

they hang heavy on my tongue like clothing lines through tenement windows

but my scars are excellent story tellers and I could talk

to the crinkles around your eyes for centuries

we kiss each other like amulets, use our bodies in place of prophets

I’ve never been good at reading between the lines

but I read your palms and came to the conclusion

that you are every word I could never find

you tell me the freckles across my shoulder blades are like Braille and only the best people can decipher my story  Read more

The Language of All Things

Impatient for the day to begin
I emerge from my dark bedroom and head outside
To hurry it along
I clutch the old pilled sweater firmly against the early day
The edges of my nightgown wipe the dew from the grey green grass
I stand rooted
The morning greets me
A pine scented soft breeze washes away yesterday
As it glides gently through the family of trees
That have been here since long before me
Tall and friendly, watchful
Their voice
An orchestra of leaves
fluttering and swaying
performing nature’s sweet melodies
A relentless chorus of large crows, caw magnificently  Read more