Landscaper Unemployed

After her shower
the tree trimmer
brushes his wife’s hair
to the curve of her back
in long beautiful strokes
with the thick round
of her brush, the light
of her blond ends
wet, dark as wheat,
wrapping around the black
of the coarse boar hair.
She arches her thin neck,
dipping her head with each gentle pull.
He thinks she is a willow tree,
her hair the thin branches,
locks of leaves leaning
with a kind of ache,
a wanting for water.
He can reach her razor on the sink,
the curved plastic handle
purple and awkward
between his big fingers.
Up off the trunk
of her body he lifts
the ends in one more stroke
and without tension,
without her knowing,
prunes.

First appeared in Common Ground Review, Vol 4, No. 2 2002



January on Bellevue Avenue

Too cold for snow,
rabbit tracks remain hollows
in the white yard crust,
like a child's finger sweeps through
homemade glaze on a birthday cake.
Our dog runs out down the brick path,
kicking up rock salt, pellets like hail
bouncing. The lawn's firm surface
breaks with her weight, opening
deep and soft to her cream underbelly.
She jerks her paws out from the wide
plunges, cutting an iced wake.
I can see with each step
she believes that the snow will hold
her, that there is something strong
about the cold here, something
that keeps the winterberries blushing
red and full, tight on the ends
of the neighbor's brush,
tipping the bare twigs down
to kiss the white face.

There is a stubbornness too:
Across the street Christmas wreaths
evergreen in thick circles on glass porch doors.
The thin board of a child's swing
bears snow from weeks ago,
thick and high like a baker's stale loaf.
The old ropes hang frozen
like icicles long from the oak.
At the empty feeder, the nuthatch holds
on, searching for seed no
matter how close the dog.

First appeared in The Puckerbrush Review, Summer/Fall 2002