For Marcy #1

Because the frantic breeze
is scrambling, wild to escape the rain,
it stumbles clumsily through trees
and snaps the branches for a second's gain.

Now puffing to a wind
it eyes the clouds and doesn't see below
the asters' lovely faces pinned
and twisted in the muddy garden row.

Inflated to a gale
it drives the rain that would have lightly splashed,
so rushing, reckless, so to fail,
so drenched in any case, and so, abashed.

Compared to Then #2

We eat so well, the problem now
is how to stop ourselves.
Our poverty is relative:
the older car we are ashamed
to drive, although it runs;
vacations we must borrow for.
We own the house, but want to renovate.
Here and there's some silk or gold
    for luxury.

And we are free to think or be
without some antiquated sense
of inhibition, or a fear
    of blasphemy.

One thing that doesn't change:
the hope of being loved
which in these days
may still be starved
or dressed pathetically.

#3

The spider in the corner knows
in solitary stealth to spin,
to lurk in vigilance astride
its abattoir of gossamer.
Relieved of pity or regret,
perfecting predatory urge,
The spider in the corner sips
the blood of hapless, tethered guests.

The spider in the cortex knows
the hunger of the carnivore,
the fury of the bayonet.
Through lifetimes nasty, brutish, short,
it weaves neuronal webs to snare
the rule of law and conscience, too,
while elsewhere spin their morbid yarn
arachnids in the mouth and fist.

How could we for a moment hope
to tame the spider's ancient ways
with implements of civil life
(to which the spider is immune)
such as my father's scolding look,
my mother's reassuring touch?

#4

Spring cannot be kept,
cannot be kept from springing
jubilant from callous ground,
flinging green exuberance
all through the glittered air.

Summer will not stop,
will never stop its singing
wistful tunes in shaded glens,
smiling not so garden fresh,
the breeze desultory.

Fall cannot be kept,
cannot be kept from bringing
sedatives to tender lives.
Failing magic flees the grove
and nature desiccates.

Winter will not stop,
will never stop its wringing
first, from us, unwelcome sense,
stinging truth for mortal wounds,
and secondly, from time,

one more curling calendar.