we built a fire in the fire pit
kept it going into december
when the sky was blue
and air was cold
you played violin
and I played harmonica
we sang to the fire in the sky
we prayed for the fog to roll in
the first frost came and went
but we were ill-prepared
like we always were
I keep telling you I am the same boy
you first met decades ago
and you tell me the ocean is still green
november two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
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you cried and I don’t know why
and suddenly a rainbow
appeared and we toasted
to everything unexpected
I cried and I don’t know why
things happen like they do
finding myself accidentally alone
tossing a salad and tearing
cold chicken with my hands
the rain barrel’s been near empty
for half a summer now
and I’m beginning to wonder
if autumn will ever arrive
before winter settles in
august two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
autumn arrives right on time
a reminder that none of us
can forever enjoy
the endless days of light
early in the morning
when the sky is untouched
by a belated sun
you are awakened by little leaves
knocked around by tortuous winds
forming strength as a collective
and striking window panes
as if they were sheets of rain
nothing can escape the transition
into this slow death
where you are bound
to experience the creepiness
entering your soul
leaving you hungry and cold
and wishing for all things new again
The garden beds never existed
twenty years ago where a sloping
hill begged to be cut into by an old man
in a bobcat, while younger men
With shovels and levels laid stone blocks
across the yard with precision
and speed, like a kid building
a lego wall for the umpteenth time.
As youngsters we ran carefully through
the new garden, leaping on one stone
circle after another placed in no
particular pattern by my father,
While in between young flowering plants
and herbs and shrubs learned
to adapt and prosper in the rich soil.
Season after season my father
Experimented in the garden,
purchasing deer resistant perennials
from the nursery, using his spade
to plant the new and rearrange
The old, pruning in the Spring
and deadheading in the fall,
raising them as if they were
his second set of children.
In midsummer we visit with our own
little ones who love to hop through
the fully mature garden, abloom
in shades of red and green,
Yellow and purple, blue and orange,
with barely enough room
for anything new, still babied
by the man who raised them so strong.
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
You promised you’d make it back
to Iowa where the fifth season
gives us time to enjoy the other four.
The photos from the Farmer’s Market
are fresh in my mind as I sit and wonder
if they made it all the way to Bagram.
I start the sleds in the shed every so often
knowing they’ll be ready for the trails
once you and the snow finally arrive.
june two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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