ARE WE THERE YET?

Are we there yet?— comes the restless cry
of bouncing children in the car’s back seat.
No, darlings, we will get there by and by

comes from a front-seat grownup in reply.
Before too long, the rigmarole repeats:
are we there yet? —now a plaintive cry

much louder and annoyingly pitched high.
Again the answer, in a tone now not so sweet:
sit down, be quiet; we will get there by and by.

There is nothing for it but to lie back, sigh
and take a nap or find some munchables to eat.
Are we there yet?—-a forbidden, useless cry.

Staring out the window, a daydreaming little eye
watches the road, the trees, advance, retreat
in endless tickings toward the by and by—

it would inquire of a power in the passing sky
with no one else to hear, unvoiced, discreet—
are we there yet? Then in a whimper, not a cry,
say to itself: just wait until I get there, by and by.
.
.ARE WE THERE YET?

AWAKE, MY SOUL

Sniff the bitter grass
teaser on a passing breeze.
Shall we plant sweet peas?

Snow lies still in the garden.
Clouds hang heavy from heaven.

Stiffened hands and feet
yearn to cut loose from their wraps
to wriggle in sun.

See how the day lasts longer.
Chickadee, where have you been?

The sun has spoken.
Shadows caress the mountain.
I call out to them

we wait for the lulling of
night crickets rubbing their wings.

Feather in my hand
crisp leaf that skitters windborne
nowhere in my head

what is this song of paper
singing itself to itself?

Now it is April
the frail old stoop-sitter smiles
but he says nothing.
.
.
AWAKE, MY SOUL

WEEKEND IN JUNE

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The smell of spring through open windows,
lilac, lily of the valley, fresh-cut lawns—
especially at sunset, if it’s warm, with a light wind;

especially on Friday, tired from a work-hard week—
it loosens clothing, talk and inhibition,
maybe with a clink of drink-to-drink.

But nothing lasts, especially to think of
beautiful deliverance from the past week, month
or year. Soon Saturday is here, with tasks

or obligations saved-up for the day,
for catching-up with housework or with friends.
Time spends itself so suddenly away

toward Sunday, when the rituals set in,
and panic petrifies the fun, the very thought of
the next unavoidable, ascending sun.