Please, pay attention

Please, pay attention.
The fig tree—it is in leaf,
with fruit, before you even
notice it is there.

Open your eyes.
Wind gusts
explode the sea's surface
in circles. The bad weather's
all gone to sea, they said,
but it's raining years
on your head, you'll
have to go inside and
close the door.

A boy on the bus carries
six sandwiches in plastic
wrap on his knees. Such
lack of inhibition! You could
learn from that.

Be wild and curious. The
day is in bloom. It needs
attention, admiration.
Bees graze the lavender.
There's a new yellow wall,
sycamore trees come
over it

Tornado

For days we stayed
inside. Lit the lamps.
Some prayed.
Some made food.
The times the wind quietened
we told stories.
The time we loved a man so much
we thought we'd die.
The time our brother left
for war. The time we wondered
at our mother's sense
of purpose.
It was a difficult time.
All that frightening wind
and our lives
storming the house
like that.
When it finally stopped
we went outside
to view the
damage. The great
orchard of
our lives.
All those trees.
All that fruit.

The same day a
lizard licks your
wrist, a newborn
baby laughs
in its sleep in
your arms, remembering
the good times.
Like when he sat all
morning once and
watched a fire
on the hillside, flames
flaring up the
ridge.
The past flickers
across his tiny
face. He speaks all
romance languages.
We rely on him
for understanding.

Raurimu Spiral

We drive through
the clear night.
The dark strangely
light from an almost
full moon.
Arrive at the house.
There's fire. Your
first friends. The ones
you learned
language with, trying
your beginners' sounds
out on each other.
One, now a gardener,
names plants. Says
look, umbrella moss,
in hushed tones.
Her sister is the
mother of two girls
who look just like
her when she was the
beautiful wide-faced child
in all our photographs.
She now holds her
third child in her arms
a dark boy an hour
new to the world.
We make our acquaintance
then sleep
while across the paddocks
a train circles the
hillside of our
page 10 childhood.
Twice it passes
the house where we
dream, all of us, of
the past.
Memory being
this trip we take.
The snow coming down
to cover
everything.

The Fourth Love Painting

Tricky, the fourth,
with the sun going
and that man
in the corner
crying 'envelope
envelope'.