Dianne and I grow good omens
in our garden.
Admittedly she does most of the work.
I spread the manure.
We cut bouquets to give to our friends
when they fear dying.
Or when they invite the four riders of the apocalypse
to gallop through their living room.
God admonishes us for giving away
the beautiful blooms
before the bees finish pollinating
and the good omens go to seed.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney
I stand behind you,
feel the muscled knots and knobs between your shoulder blades,
press painful buttons, Ohs escaping
into this room scored in daylight,
a lilac hue from the cobalt vase,
your book muffled by the closed cover,
three cookies left in Tupperware
that knew full this morning.
My eyes shut so my thumbs can see
the muscles’ mysterious tethers, linchpins,
to detangle fibers from spasms.
Where once there were dead sticks and stems,
overturned earth knows no rows
or floral signposts just yet.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 