I have two poems in Pennsylvania’s Poetic Voices. Here they are, formatted correctly this time.

IN THERE SOMEWHERE

Truth be told, we bought the house
because the garden
enchanted us.

It stretched for 50 yards—
taking a gentle
slope down to a creek

that had no name, but burbled
and rushed as it should,
and probably harbored trout.

The garden was overgrown
by every weed known to man—
Strangleweed and Poison This

and Poison That
and Kudzu
that had smothered the trees.

But in this wilderness I could pick
out signs of a formal garden.
Flagstone paths and brick

beds—and even a bench or two.
And when I plunged in
I came out scratched

and bleeding from rose bush thorns.
This will be fun, we shared with a grin,
and ran off to gather the tools.

SCAMPER

It isn’t easy now,
you know.
That uphill walk
I’ve taken every
day for 40 years
has me stopping,
once or twice
to catch a breath.

And my left knee
wise cracks titanium
with every other step.

The garden
is first to greet me—
straddling the top of the hill.
it shakes its overgrown
head like a six-year-old boy
finally acknowledging
the need for a haircut.

We speak of entropy
like we imagine
scientists might—
one more disorder
like bad eyesight.

But, the walk will get no easier,
the knee no less creaky.
The garden will never return to its
well-ordered beginnings.
Nothing fixes itself.

It even affects our speech.
I imagine words
I will never need again.
The first to pop up
is “scamper.”
It’s a great word for the youngsters
I think, as I try to imagine I’m
scampering up the hill,
which has me smiling, then laughing
then coughing.