Solidarity

The hose is on
running clear into black
of garden earth.
Worming between
the pink Cortland stalks
of ripe rhubarb.
Four kids, our feet
disguised in mud
and horseradish.
Only the pale
seashell of toenails
giving us away.
Mountains are earth, rebelling
Straining against dirt-ness
against gravity
Mother portions them out
one-eighth of a cup
in six mounds, cupped
A poem about a little girl sitting in a whicker chair, watching a parade go by from her spot in the bay window.
A poem about a childhood adventure in imagination
A sudden car trip in the dark.
Your blue hands
curled in the coffin.
Stealthy in bare feet
three bandits come.
Prize swivels high between
striped green leaves.