Friday, November 11, 2011

Raining Again

Raining Again

Day twenty-three and
counting now some fear
more water pouring down
soaking sore the core

beyond despair
hope for what is now
so unclear

hint of day twenty-four
on the rise, false
security of mud
as days pile on

adding always up
Souring the hour
Mud too thin to hold

a foot, the rocks awash
ground on the move
and us without one raft
some oars or wings to bear

our lives or spare this sweep
of once sweet rain
another day, counting…

Jane Penland Hoover
November 11, 2011

PAD #11
Math, or numbers…

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Weeping Willow Dripping Leaves

We two watch the yellow truck
roll up the length of curve,
our drive trees we planted,
watered, arching over now
shadows falling long
receive our sighs

What remained of our possessions
on the way to Durham distant
town unknown to this sheltered cove
its wind-brushed grass where Holsteins
graze, unfazed and unaware

of our goodbyes whispered to all of them,
the blue-grey heron, beavers in their den,
turtles sunning on the shore once ours,
uncluttered now the kayaks sold

Clasped hands press

Two vans engaged
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Thursday, September 17, 2009

On His Turf

I overheard the neighbored reprimand my Dad

Those kids playing
will ruin your lush lawn

I saw dad’s laugh dispel the shadow

We’re not growing grass
We’re raising girls

I didn’t hear what followed
only knew that I stood taller
bare feet planted in thick comfort

Saturday, September 5, 2009

The Accountant's Wife

I loved him
when he came home from work,
his pockets emptied,
his fingers freed of pens.

I loved him distant
sitting on the screened back porch,
his pipe stem clasped between his lips
each wispy puff
relaxed release
time earned.

I loved him most
later in our room, after Johnny Carson
and our laughs were all turned off
where silence ruled by touch
and fingers drew the length of days
between two palms

as years accrued, grew close
and closer still
until at last a coffer
the alchemy our treasure.

Friday, September 4, 2009

On Gardening and Love
by Jane Penland Hoover

I imagined I might fall in love

with gardening, the taste of green
the feel of bloom on stem.

I joined the little club
that met each week in
Shirley’s den to talk

about hydrangeas, violets,
planting pink impatience,
what sufficient moisture
and the sun might do.

I discovered, before I fell,
that I must kneel, reach
deep into the darkened soil,

rise, bend, rise, and bend
again, and again,

fingers dripping dirt.