The eggs appear where
they were not,
one deep in a black sock,
another in the red pan
hung from the pantry shelf,
still others under chairs,
wedged in corners of every
room,
one even in the flower pot
where crocuses bloom, and
he is surprised at each
purple, orange, yellow, blue
egg he sees,
shouts There and There
until his basket's full
and I must sneak them out
as quietly as he has noisily
piled them in,
hiding them once more in places
that we've been
so when he turns around
he can lift each egg and set it in
the basket he knew was full
but delights in filling once again.

Walnuts, Wassergass

Walnut pods dropping
that I used to rake with my son,
his small red rake, my big green one,
now and then his fingers squashing

the green shells
fingers and palms all stained
that he'd hold up and chase me with,
powerful

over this father who ran for all
he was worth,
round and round until he fell
and was touched

on face, hands, neck, pants, shirt,
whirls of greenish-brown
impossible
to wash out.



Search for the Cave

You climb whatever rock you find
during our walk up the three hills
behind our house, and then beyond,
the farthest I have gone although
you have been here with friends before,
and I know this is special,
our looking for a cave you might crawl into
and stay as long as you want.
There is nothing I want more
than to find the shadowy mouth
you might enter standing up,
the tunnel you might explore
for miles winding in the earth
that will bring you out here
or to some other hole of light and sky
that would announce your coming through all right,
but this hill is only rock
dropped when the glacier passed,
a tumbled mass of granite with some overlap
that a stray fox or coyote might claim
for a day or two but not stay,
as you will stop these few years in our white house
and then move on to condo, apartment, flat,
while I will walk these hills with a stick a bit too long
but one I will not cut because you whittled it
for hour upon hour before calling me out
on a fine April morning for this special walk.



Big Bowl of Raspberries

Thousands of walnut pods
and these two
have to fight over one,

their ruckus chirring
waking me from
the one pleasant
dream

I've had for months,

you, your belly big
as the Buddha brought
home
last week from the garage
sale,

pregnant with our son,
nineteen years ago,

then the two of you --
him, what?, three? --
smushing raspberries
all over your mouths
and cheeks and noses,

plenty of raspberries
in that big bowl
for everyone.