Morning at Joe’s

A friend is like a pair of old boots-
Comfortable. Worn in, but not worn out.
Don’t worry about the frayed edges, the hollow moments
And wrinkled conversation of old men.

Time is sifted here, settling in like corn dust and
Attaches to my clothes like a burr and won’t let go.
The old buildings are laying hens, fine where they are
And not to be moved or cared for too much.

So they guard memories that could be disturbed
Or awakened if jostled. This morning’s coffee, leftover
From yesterday, but drinkable, as in the warmth of
The wood stove soaking into my cold December hands.

We walk out to the blacksmith shop, tired bricks laid
For a new shelter planned over the forge, black coal edges to everything
And a hundred hammers used for a hundred years
Hang waiting.

To spit their pitted iron into the fire, maybe to mend the
Venerable relics of farm life leaning casually into the earth
Under the roof of the barn sprouted proudly up from
Deep roots of love’s inheritance, land’s voice enduring.

We walk back to the house, his stories—tanned and toughened leather
In years of telling. Ghosts bundled back inside to warm
And wait for evening, and maybe smile along with
The wrinkled conversation of old men.

The Talk of Trees

The way of a tree
Is life slowed down,
A bayou of vertical twinkling stream
From root to crown.

          Scientific perspective    
          Family of woods

If one is threatened
Others alerted,
A shouting, silvered electric voice
Down roots and fungi web.
Though, I wonder,
Does delight dance in the stream?
Will the wren nestled in the crook of branch bring solace?
Or the jittery squirrel, joy?

My embrace of the old oak must be felt
Down and down
Until known by the birch and willow,
I would like to think.
And, if all is connected,
Is the peal of this wounded earth dispatched
To run the webbed fungi of space…heard?

          The chatter of worlds…
          Is anybody listening?