The Silk Road organic serenity
is in the kitchen on a counter in its tin.
In what sense does my making and drinking
tea make it what it says it is, or for that matter
how does my watching make chores
grow like grass? The lawn is even
where I mowed yesterday. No compost there.
In the sunlight, a swarm of bugs jives
Saturday night at the Crystal Palace
to no purpose I can see, not like the mason
soft shoeing a delicate six step all over
the sexual organs of the fragrant lavender.
Flagrant without much to say.
Most of the vegetables are still asleep
after a pleasant drenching in the irrigated dark.
A single dead dogwood leaf pirouettes
into the soft bow of movement without sound.
Maybe a chore is being born. In the wisdom
of their great thunder, early travelers
fly eastward defining silence by their going
like an intimate humming I turn to see
before the hummingbird dashes away.
On the dead branch of a mac, a clematis finds
somewhere to grow. That's why we don't sever it,
that and the feng shui wabe sabi of the old tree.
Every year the upstarts are pruned and the scant
falls are put into compost with work I like. The sun
I was going to say allows but actually insists
on shorts. I disrobe into almost entirely only me.
To the buzzing beside my ear I don't have to explain
not the orifice of engendering more than to the house-
fly on my hand that probes and tickles as it walks
feeling for a rotten place to lay eggs that will hatch
into maggots do I need to say not dead yet.
That impulse to shoo or swat stays away
as if there were nothing not to love out here.
Not the rough rock wall built by guesswork
straining to put the heavy on top where it is
sure to fall, not the yellow jacket drinking curiosity
at the sweet black lip of my coffee mug –
four times I have been stung molesting
their congress in the compost bin – not the odd
helicopter beating eggs or the persistent jets
or the irregular falling up and down hill to UBC.
I heard squeals that sounded like the joy of a bug
in pollen, the stiff glee of a gate opening, fabric
settling into my weight on a cheap fold out chair,
early peeps that would become laughter by 9 a.m..
and for no reason fathomable by me, all of these
were the furthest thing from bother like the tin
of serenity someone gave us as a gift that had
gone missing and therefore forgotten, fallen
out of sight on the bottom of a much used drawer.