Mutual pleasure in the tomato that slips
off the vine at the lightest pull,
red, ripe and ready, a slight softness.
Cherry-sized fruit with no scent of nightshade,
only summer sunlight bursting on the tongue.
Church bells on this late July afternoon
when I stop the lawn mower engine.
The grass is August-dry, yellow-green and bored
with growing, and the katydids stop singing.
As it was in the beginning, now.
Outside there is snow, windswept and untouched.
The window panes form a logical grid,
but I prefer the unbroken doorway view.
Simplicity. White on white. Blue horizon.
Lokta paper before the pen or brush.
Talk about the web, the interconnected planet,
the Internet’s World Wide Web, everything touching.
But this is one spider’s orb web.
Everything connected to it, any silken touch,
a signal that we are under attack.
On the road in summer seemed Romantic
(capital R) when I was a novel-reader,
smoker, alcohol drinker, an unmarried, childless pilgrim.
Now, I think about traffic, tolls, weather,
gas prices, and road trips have destinations.