Sittin in the shades of green
in chickadee trills and the air is wet.
I pet my dog and he knows what I mean,
this is as good as I get.
The radio announces explosions one by one,
the bees are buzzing in their hive,
dad is laughing up in his room and I’m alive.
I believe in the actions of this phoebe
who’s built its clever nest up on my porch.
A peaceful rain drops and it’s hard to believe in war.
Joe is calling up his girlfriend.
Nana’s baking a pie.
I’ve been reading Thoreau, living up in a tree
and not wondering why.
O, the sweet beauty of a flower’s poverty,
the magic starry nights.
I’ve named the grey squirrel Pedro
and have just been letting the bedbugs bite.
I been throwing logs onto the fire
and preaching to the cricket choir,
smoking an old corncob pipe and
soon these apples will be ripe.
We’ll be picking apples and mondolins,
picking our noses and picking our friends,
picking ticks off the dogs now and again,
yeah, pickin
and a grinnin.