Marianne,

Unfortunately a mushroom
rolls with surprising speed
despite grass or indents of rodent burrows
or little bushes.
Creminis in particular can roll for yards downhill
before someone like me
might trap one gently with
his foot.
But burnt soup is pleasant in this case
upon return to my hilltop
I found I’ve spoiled my avoidant routine.
I rubs the mushroom
as if it were a marble—
not very far from a marble
in the end.
I’ve brought it closer
to being one.
Manifesting dreams
is part of my experience here.

Eccentric Human Occupation

I knew a weaver
who wove gloves
to fit the tips of branches
on his neighbor’s cherry tree.
Cedric the Weaver.
He was the third
in a line of weavers
to weave for this
neighbor, Terry, who
bankrolled the whole operation.
There was Gladys and Paul
before there was Cedric.
Gladys and Paul made solid progress
in the eyes of Terry,
until they each moved
on to other careers
not requiring long hours
in front of a loom
confronting logic.
Before Paul
and before Gladys,
Terry himself
wove the wool gloves
until he discovered
his new neighbor was a weaver,
and he would rather pay
someone else to do it,
someone already trained,
who could weave more and more
complicated designs which
took months to complete.
The tree hated all of this,
resented the heavy wool
decoration, couldn’t
bear the extra weight,
decided it was ugly,
the world was ugly,
the ridiculous cabal of weavers
a god-awful dredge, the men
who bought the land and built
the house that leeched its juices
into the soil a demonic blight,
gloves profane weapons,
weaving artless manufacturing,
neighbors conspirators,
branches traitorous,
cherries…

Primitive Influencer

Yes, all day
I lug
buckets

And when I eat
I sit on
a bucket

Gentle rest
on the rim
of a volcano

At the lime pit
I fill my buckets
with the steaming milk

I walk the mortar
To the clearing uphill
Where the house is
slowly forming

Lines of stone
and in between the stone
stone harassed by flame
from the furnace

Drowned and covered
and pushed into cracks
to sit and become stone again
Ugh

Harold was born
in the kiln-keep’s hut
when the charcoal was ripe
He likes this stuff

I was born
in a castle
and raised on the run

But we built this furnace together
And now we are building our house
We mined the limestone
We dammed the stream

hauled the water in buckets
We bred the goats for
their hair and for their milk

We raced to undo our belts
For the final honing of chisels
To make nice edges with the rock

Harold went blind one day
When a hot pit mix
Exploded on us

My veil was unfurled
It was our wedding day
On the edge of the pit
The lime slid down my veil
Life is horrifying

No holidays from work
The wheel has not been
Invented yet
Nothing goes fast
There is no light
Harold jostles the stone
like eggs in the dark

One day we will have a countertop
And I will lift him onto it
And the goats will bleat in wonder
At their situation

Impatient, But Appreciative

Trying to enjoy
the French doors
in the living room
that open onto
the screened-in
porch. Trying
to enjoy the still pond
across the street,
the intrusiveness
of lawn mowers
driven in laps
through the side yard
I share with the neighbor
I haven’t introduced
myself to or even
spoken to at all.
Trying to enjoy
this temporary
apartment I’ll be
leaving soon.
In general, trying
to speak with
myself less.
Trying to speak
with others
instead.
Trying a knife
out to see
what it does
to a squash
since I’ve
sharpened it.
Trying not
to sharpen
the squash,
though I’d be
curious to try.
I’ve wanted to
try that.