New Potatoes and Peas

It is almost an act of violence.

The pitchfork stabs the June warm

earth, the tines lift the tender, new

potatoes out of their bed

into the air and the thin-skinned,

mushroom brown buried treasures

are warmed by the sun

for the first time.

They will be brushed, scrubbed and

boiled till they surrender

under the pressure

of our tongues against

the roofs of our mouths.

Now we must rob the peas

of their jewels, their green

purses torn at the seams,

the peas dropping like pearls,

tinging as they hit the bottom

of the old, white bowl as

each pod is shelled. We are

relentless and remorseless

in our theft.

Butter is melted, onions are

sweated, flour is added, cream and milk  are

poured slowly, the old

wooden spoon constantly,

stirring till suddenly, the satiny

sauce, simmers, thickens and bubbles.

Fold the potatoes and peas

into the white sheets of sauce.

Dash them with salt and pepper.

This is the taste of young summer,

before the heat of August makes us

dream of fall, when the earth and

the sun whisper sweet promises

in the shapes of potatoes and peas.

Our faulty stars

Our Faulty Stars

Tonight I will sing to the sky pinned stars,

and to planets masquerading as suns,

to beg them to tell me truths from afar,

about how the course of my days will run.

My mind seeks patterns in the barks of trees,

in my stucco ceiling I see a face,

stains in my toilet contain prophecies,

so why not consider these lights in space?

We all search for meaning every day,

in headlines and tea leaves and tarot cards,

in the rosary beads we use to pray,

in patterns of broken pottery shards.

So why not ask these small lights in the skies?

Or should we ponder...does heaven tell lies?