Present

Present
A poem by Ann Arbor written on June 1, 2016 during 42nd Annual Conference

I’m here on the back deck
made of rusty nails and
weather beaten boards.
Here where the chokecherry blossoms
hold some small wasps
in an opening dance.
This is only the beginning of summer.
The chestnut’s candelabra
points in all directions toward
the sky. And a robin comes
to sit on the railing at my
shoulder to look at me,
cluck once, then twice
and fly away. Approval or
disapproval. I don’t know.
But I saw his orange breast
and heard what he had to say.

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