BEATING BACK THE IVY
The hill behind our house bends
to the creek, snaking down a path
rimmed by azaleas and dogwood.
I hear creek bubbles rise, singing
over their ancient bed of stone.
How fast ivy invades, crawling
over roots and up the trunk
of oak, twisting between tendrils
of healthy shrub, into every
crevice of the life it sucks.
My wife’s shoulders mirror
the curve of the hill as she stoops,
hacks and clips the greedy fingers
from a fragile throat of gnarled bark,
root by stubborn root.
Her small hands, stained raw,
repeat these ritual repairs
of nature’s wild wardrobe,
protect life older than ours
in a tiny part of the world.
INSTRUCTIONS TO MY SONS
One day you’ll forget the color
of my eyes, and more than that.
You’ll forget Saturday’s Daddy Eggs,
scrambled with grated cheese, and
the way I looked when dead.
Maybe you’ll wear the nice suit
I shrunk out of, bent at the elbow,
stiff with wool memory, reminding
your arm how I held a pen at my desk,
scratching out so many important lists.
I thought there was a lot I had to do,
a lot to say, though none of us really
believed all of it. Memory is a gift
and a burden. It may appear on a page,
but ink is rarely permanent.
Write it down anyway. The dead
may read more than we know and have
good glasses. When my voice flees its cage,
dial the right number. You’ll get voice mail,
pleading: please leave a message.
