Inheritance

From their vast estate
they will leave you
their treasured rug -
worn beyond pride,
its crimson threads
regrettably gone,
the grey shadow rest of it
smelling like seven generations
of Alsatian dogs,
the weave of its edges
spilling across the floor
like a camel's entrails.

Out of despair,
you will hang it on wire,
and with a split racquet
you will beat out of it
enough sand to fill
two plastic shopping bags.

The Sting

A bee stung me
on my neck - right here
where someday someone
will take my enfeebled pulse.

My glasses swelled.
My clothes medievalized.
I did that primal jig -
the one that opens

the gate to the next
world. I should have
been nicer to you.
I should have

been a way better
neighbour. I should have
dropped a coin
in that cup.

But alas! Whisper
the bee-filled woods
in my burning ear:
"You belong with us."

Servant

I will potter among the pots

and stand with bags of river sand,

and crouch to gather blooming moss

in vacant woodside parking lots.

And I will prune redundant roots,

and float the junk from jubilant stones

to mix afresh the bonsai’s bed.

And I will snip at twiggy shoots.

This is the bridge, so wide and cold

between good Spring and Winter bold,

which I will cross till I grow old 

as corky fold, as gnarly trunk.