ON THURSDAY

The laundry done
under intervals
of turn around washes
and now drying in the sun
near the tall dune grass
by tuft and cluster
with all the energy
we can muster
in this June mound
shining spoils
of cloth and clothes
in socks and hose
up to my knees
by a vast dawn of light
from scant clouds passing
in a luminous yellow
wondering if after this winter
in hibernation
we are deserving
of a bright chirping laughter
as a cardinal hovers nearby
covering an Evergreen branch
hearing a mother sing
a Spanish lullaby
by a wishing well
to her baby daughter,
the crickets sing a miracle tune
in never ending perfect harmonies
taking water from the springs
drinking in the blue lake
by the waking morning
of two mourning doves
shouting about the dunes
near neon butterflies
a fellow bard motions to me
by his churchyard fence
of his corner ranch
tells me that a bee
from his hive
might sting him
on his pitching arm
if he can't pay the rent
offers to play cards
from his own solitaire
and recites to me
on a deeply flowered bench
French verses of Baudelaire.