American robins, no picnic;

a woman knocks,

a door-to-door missionary, and asks

and I don’t know,

I think of the leg of lamb.

What do I think: the difference,

the branches, the purpose of life.

They preen, gesture so-so.

Possible answers; think

of the branches

just like a comedian.

No. No, thank you.

Things are the next vaudeville;

the purpose of life’s

about what they always were,

an abrupt change,

not to be asked.

I’m not picky about temperature;

such questions are nothing.

A woodpecker watches

what happens (there is no purpose)

complains, thinks

of the loneliest life.

The robin gets it

if you’ve never been,

if the rose petal stares

at the robin's surroundings

and multiplies it by ten.

Goddesses from the cove

sit at a picnic table;

that’s a good thing.

Here’s the church;

maybe she hands me the pamphlet;

here’s the steeple;

fold your hands.

The color of paint is winter

into the olive trees,

the musicians. The season

is early green replaced

by a linden.

You have lace in a rose;

here on this porch

the missionary is a charm stone,

handkerchiefs stuffed

up her sleeve,

sitting in my chair;

I've found

in the dark, eyes

that are brown

as this is not all the doors.

Listen to the tiny September

and have no reason

frogs sing. There are images

to come in or go out:

the glowing pale green.