Sand Box

Mars has been the moon star this week.
In the east each night just past dark,
It chased, it caught, it passed the moon.

The full moon chased it down the west,
And both set in a cloud of mist
That rose from the lawns just at dawn.

The true stars, which tell us we’re not
All—not most, much, nor the least part
Of the whole show—twirled their dark stage,

And a small man with bent glass bones,
Who hid out in a plain bare house
With a wall to mark its squared scrap

Of turf, went to bed with the rise
Of that moon star and rose with set
In the mist and said, my sand box!

What a Flock Knows That It Can’t

Germs, genes, and chance make most beasts,
But for us add mind as well.
And what do we mean by mind?

Our skulls are jars with pierced lids.
Mind is in each one of us
Like a squid arm in a jar.

Yes, you have a mind. You’re mind
And you’re jar. Then the jar breaks.
Then the mind goes its own way.

Could be it learned things from you,
Snatched a thing or two it craved
In you. That’s your gift to mind.

We all get to play. Most all.
Mind goes on. But that squid-jar
Pic is not quite apt. Try this—

A small thing lives in a reef.
It adds a bit of stone paste.
It dies. The reef grows and lives.

Or this—a flock of dark birds,
Each with sharp eyes and real brains,
Reels and sculpts waves from swift points.

The birds have their built-in rules,
And each bird has its own goals,
But who knows what the waves know?