Still Joy To Be Found

There is still joy to be found.
Pleasure in the optimism of birdsong,
Relentless waves against the beach,
The absurdity of flying beetles.

Those obnoxious, brilliant orbs,
Their color a distillation of every green,
Seem better suited for clinging
To the edge of delicate blossoms
Or moving tank-like through the grass.
But then those iridescent shells
Burst forth wings. What joy!
They take flight across the lawn,
Mad to find the next flower.

When I go, as I one day will,
Do not lay me out on white satin.
Don't paint my face to give it life.
Do not fill the coffin's edges with
bottles of liquor or pens or books;
Talismans of a life.

Burn me down and put my ashes
In a box of iridescent green,
the color of a beetle's shell.

I'll spread my own absurd wings.

This is not for you, now

I watch her check her mail 

while she waits for her salad in the pub. 

She'll pack it up and take it back to her room. 

She can relax then and let go a bit, 

kick off her espadrilles, 

the ones she had hand made in Spain 

by Lika Mamika.

Maybe she'll wait until later to open her laptop.

The afternoon light glints off the Neponset 

and reflects in her half rims. 

The thick page boy colored to match 

her russet blouse and matching capri's.

Not bad for her age, as they say. 

My age. 

Good hands, thick gold rings. 

Married well with a good job besides? 

Somebody in charge, a decision maker.

I am sure her garden is bright with flowers. 

Well ordered, controled , always in balance.

She is ruthless with the plants 

that do not bend to her command. 

Beneath her wide-brimmed sea grass hat,

her eyes search the ground for the errant plant. 

The trowel plunges into the earth again and again. 

At dusk she comes into the kitchen, 

lays her gloves on the black marble counter,

turns on the faucet and runs her hands under the stream, 

her rings glinting in the sunlight. 

" A good day's work" she says to her husband.

He struggles to remember the curve 

where flower meets 

curve of inner thigh. 

He says nothing, 

but silently roots for the weeds.  

Quincy Ma, 

June 19, 2012