past year's

in half a reflection
i see past years become pastures

because of the long fields
we pass each week,
a variety, changing always.
i nearly mentioned seasons,

in Ohio changing fields are endless.

now in march, looking around it seems forever cold.
this year, last year, the years before that.
now the end of winter we're between seasons,
nothing definite. one not gone,
the new not underway.

in a week or few we'll be in warm,
let that seem forever, always warm.
ah...the satisfaction.
that'll go nicely in the pastures.
with wheat, goats, cows, horses and corn.
all the way.

the village

on the near corner

a street cleaner rolls by loudly humming

no discernible tune.

not a man with a straw broom,

a large, blue truck with spinning brushes

on the bottom,

shaking houses a block away.

this is life in the village.

soon it will be spring

took the winding road, familiar drive

for breakfast at our same spot Shelby,

an easy, country ride all the way.
wound past Plymouth and New Haven,
beyond the falling down, drive-in theater
to our unsung, out of the way village
where same spot parking is a comfort.

again we found the restaurant tranquil,

no music, light chatter, usual crew working.

customers at ease, composed.
seems everyone's half pilgrim.

had eggs again, cooked to satisfaction.

farm fresh, must be chickens nearby.

a degree or so more and we'd have warm spring.

it soon will be.

cooking it

i am looking at a plantain recipe,

stick with me,

it's right here on this paper.

now, i'll set it on the table.
see here,

the recipe says i should cut the plantains

in circles? how in hell do i do that?

it’s a banana not a melon.

well, it looks like a banana.

slices, you could say slices.

they'd be circular, maybe that's it.
another thing, here, this is good,

why is everything fried

until it’s "golden brown".

did you notice?

is that the only attractive cooking color, brown?

isn’t there another shade?

forget i asked, close your eyes,

breath easy...in, out.

now fry the damn plantain.
they're delicious.

robin vision

from the porch
75 yards away i see...
the porch isn't 75 yards away.
75 yards away from the porch
i see a robin on a rooftop.
not a starling, a robin;
pause now to let that sink in.

the figure of an hourglass, swelt.
the younger generationals
may not know an hourglass.
i understand why you not would,
a negative know about.

a fine figured bird as you can imagine.
standing tall, not ball shaped
like those squatty starlings.
the robin, princess of the aviary,
a well-formed chick, not spherical.
tiny eagle-like of your dreams,
though if you seldom dream of robins.
i understand completely, who can blame you.

march, the middle

sitting on the bench

on the porch in the sun,

nothing done, especially,

the day's early, relatively.

all is fine. the time is mine,

it's quiet and a slow start...

they say it will be warmer later,

they is the weather people.

for me to do now? i'm going in.

thinking up new passwords, isn't necessary,

google probably thinks i should.

is this practically a romantic poem yet?

at this moment i'll clear my head.

enough said, except about the weather;

it'll be 45 degrees today, i'm excited.

spring degrees are a reasonable presumption.

that's what winter in ohio does to you.

enough writing in here, it's march,

i'm going back on the porch

while the sun is still up.