Letter to a Dear Friend

The bluebird of happiness, peepless
all these days, sits atop a crooked fence
struggling to keep botanicals at bay.
          Dear friend,

hope you weren't upset when
the tornado strutted down your street.
I sat in my powder room until it passed.
          The cats were on their own.

I put two thistle feeders up
for goldfinches, but now they're covered
in coyote slobber. They shed the moon
          like the wrong song.

Hummingbirds fly under wildflowers like
John Denver buzzing Clint Eastwood's home
the day his plane kissed Monterrey Bay.
          Flowers explode

from the vase in a great escape color parade.
I think of you often - not the cake
or candles or even the gussied day,
          but having you as my culprit,

my next bliss, my sugar kiss, always
a profusion of grace partial to crazy
like the calm fat black bear,
          bloody camper limbs scattered everywhere.