Running

Running

Sun light strains

through unclean glass

a filter to spring light. 

My eyes throb to see

the blue sky hang

over a haze of April pollen. 

A spasm grips my left hamstring

as I read Thoreau 

and Montaign.

My freer self wanders

to the rain spattered portal

and faces west. 

I would run until my

breath seized on an inhale

stranded on the beating of my heart. 

I struggle against your words,

try not to hear

them scatter my thoughts,

those thin articulations

that lightly smother me. 

The agony I most covet

comes from running

into the storm.

Berries Season

Berries on the Vine

In April opportunity rained

on asphalt, stood in pools. 

It rained on our lawn

and in the hole we dug

to move the disparate Spartan. 

In April chances came

and by May they were gone,

dust gathered on the piano,

In the hollow tick of the cuckoo clock. 

Longer days reached up and out

toward the summer solstice,

but I looked back to the winter

equinox and snowy hibernation. 

In June, the longest day upon us,

we realized our garden’s

fullness, the fertility of horse

manure, the virility of rotted

table scraps.

By July we ate the opportunity

that germinated in April,

and as the dry sun warmed

our shoulders and tanned

our knees, we ate berries

from the vine.

a.m.adams