Nature Poem

The stout banana spider
loves the four-inch boards of the deck
my steps grind deeper into the earth.

At the trail head the sign should read:
Welcome to a few acres of useless
muse hunting. I stop for a moment

to think of Mr. Bivens (live-oak chopper)
with one arm, his ghost, nothing to do but sit
with vines and moss, what I’ve mistaken

for snakes and mold. Here he dozes
until he hears my steps, then he’s off again, diaphanous
as ether, cobwebs licking his arm like tongues.

Perhaps this park is better off without me,
no urban temptations, no rubber soles,
no pen poised, no vision lacking.

Pasture on Sunday

There is Zen-like peace
in the chewing of cud,

the cut-and-shuffle of teeth and endive.
Baubles of spit settle near mushrooms;

daisies garnish a vegetable dish.
My dog stops chasing crickets,

suddenly enlightened by
two oracles of indolent bovine eyes.

What passes between them
is creature fervor, mammalian ardor,

tail swish and rumbling halt.
The rest of the Angus herd

stamps platitudes into terra firma.
On Monday the sheep come.

Email: Amanda Reynolds

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