355/365

a wisp of a nest,
meticulously secured
to a finger thin branch
of the resurrected bougainvillea,
blows precariously in the
afternoon wind. as the two
tiny yellow birds, back from
a year of where ever they’ve been,
work tirelessly in tandem gathering
materials from the neighbourhood
to build a safe haven for what i’ll
assume will be the most indiscernible
egg with a translucent shell.

last year the nest blew away before
they were ready. my wife wants to help
by erecting a shield or offering twine,
but you can’t mess with evolution.
my daughter, a few weeks, ago
asked about meaning in life-

i wonder where the birds go at night
in the wake of the full moon light.
how much could we love
their invisible new life?

304/365

the clay in which the bougainvillea
grows is sun hard and starting to mold.
grow is an exaggeration and not so much mold
but forming a layer of green algae life
that hints at disease. the leave are an unhealthy
greenish yellow but cling
to spindly branches, blooming to a
timid magenta that barely passes as pink.
we bought this tiny tree together
when you were here and recovering
and keeping alive feels like a heavy vow.
today a giant grasshopper propped
its lanky leg on a languid limb.
other days the butterflies visit,
the nest is gone and the humming birds
are missing in action. what kind of will
is rooted beyond the surface? how our
lives quiver in the darkness in a city
with the moon lurking beyond the buildings.
you are better now and home among the living.
offering advice with a gentle warm smile
as i lay the litany of slights i’m feeling today-
bored in this lengthy bout with perceived calumny.
when i water the bougainvillea a puddle
forms on the clay surface. this can’t be healthy
i muse. but staying alive is often enough.  
it needs a new pot. new soil. expert help.
but what do i know of these things?
what time do i have to mend and heal?
there is a schedule to attend to.
a routine to obey. from where comes
the spark that ignites a change? when did
the awareness to awaken not become enough
to wake up?

89/365

i went out
to see
if the moon
was still there,
hoping it’d be gone
for the sake of this poem—
the bird nest blew away
the avocado seeds
never sprouted and are rotting
the bougainvillea bloom is waning,

but the moon was still there,
tepid, beige
and uninspired;
lacking its former
gravitas.

who’s to say
what will last
and for what reasons.

73/365

the tiny bumptious
yellow birds
are making a wispy nest
in the bougainvillea
on our porch
with strips
of plastic trash
and other organic matter
they must have found elsewhere,
as the older cat
stares instinctively—
thousands of years
of predatory compulsion
arrested by a window
of domesticity.

i wonder if they’ll pull it off—
the vulnerability of a few eggs and chicks
in the spring
may teach us all
a few useful lessons.

66/365

not much to rage against these days:
the machine feels quiet and non-threatening
the dying of the light still years away.

the hush of middle-aged
security and privilege
feels like false fodder
for anything consequential.

but, why is the folklore
so burdened with affliction?

why can’t the new bloom
of the bougainvillea be enough?
the turn of the pot
the pruning of dead branches
the tiny green leaves
pullulating with impetus.

the faintest changes
on a placid surface
can cause perpetual ripples

if i knew the way
i would take you home,
or so the song
has been saying
since before i was born.

25/365

the bougainvillea I bought
with my mother
had a great bloom:
when the rain wouldn't stop in December—
and the hard glare of the sun
was replaced by torrential storms
and heavy grey days.
    
            but now
the pink flower leaves
are scattered on the porch
like the exoskeletons of a swarm of insects
wone with metamorphosis.

soon the thin branches will be bare again
littered with thorns

i’ll tell myself
to buy a bigger pot
    and new dirt
    and learn more about Ph balance
    and add vinegar to the soil
    or some shit like that,
but I won’t.

I’ll just turn it a different direction
prune the leftover nubs
and wait for another bloom
in some unpredictable future.

i wonder if the lessons in this poem
are more clear to you than they are for me.

i had a better one planned
on the way to school,
but wasn't able to capture it.

this one will have to do.