The Zen Mother

 She screams at her kids,

“you do not know what Zen is,

lousy grasshoppers!”

A Different March

I sit by the window

regarding the blackened bougainvillea,

comatose hibiscus and ruined roses,

my foot drumming to the beat

of a different March.

Not Sousa or Strauss,

but the pulse of an impatient Spring,

bulging with color and perfume and life,

eager to repair winter’s destruction.

* * *

The Stranger's Eyes

The stranger's eyes beckon,
like the muddy rain puddles
she loved to splash in as a child,
her red rubber boots
and raincoat keeping her dry,
as she squealed with delight.

She wants to drown in those eyes
and die in his absolution,
desperate to believe
that her husband
has nothing to forgive her.

*****