D. did a tremendous amount of work this morning on the house. We now have a dumpster where there was a mountain of dirt, and two piles of gravel in the scooped out area for the courtyard. He also washed off the driveway and the mess of mud in the street. What a guy.
Something I wrote for him a few years ago, at a time when I was writing exuberant love poems in honor of characters from role playing games...
How you don’t inspire me
You should have been a fire sign,
poor man, though you can’t help it
if I’m not swung in dance, held fast by passion,
dizzy, blind, flung like comet’s hair.
(I know it’s not that you don’t care.)
We sit like muck at the bottom of the pond,
settled stuff to make gardens green and plenty.
Stuck in domestic clockwork, patient sprockets leaning
into one another and away
to circle back, click together,
grind and grove and push hard at going nowhere far,
but going firmly, going well.
You should have been a fire sign, or maybe water, even air.
Yes, even air, even anything but earth. You and your dirt,
flakey with minerals, thick and dark and patient like loam.
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