Love Poem for Mother Earth

This morning, she offered me flowers—
violets, some purple, some white.
A cardinal came to visit, and two blue jays,
a flicker sporting a black necklace,
a cackle of grackles, an awkward
squawking and scrapping flock of yellow-billed
starlings, and squirrels, tails jerking,
massing under the feeder. A shy rabbit checked to see
whether the greenhouse door had, perchance,
been left open (it hadn’t). Mother Earth knows
what I like, but I don’t kid myself. She probably
offers gifts like this to all her admirers.
We realize, each of us, that we are not the only ones.
So sometimes, I am afraid, we take her affection
for granted. Sometimes, I am afraid, we don’t treat her
like we should. We don’t look out for her
like we should. I tug at my shirt collar. Is it just me,
or is it getting hot? Maybe the polar bears
could tell me. Is it too late to show our love
for Mother Earth the way we should?
Sometimes, I am afraid . . .

How To Delivery a Eulogy

for an Older Brother

In Memory of Doug

Begin by remembering.
Nicknames. Teasing. Family events.
Call to mind the way your palm stung
when he taught you how to catch a softball.
His favorite Frisbee, black and gold, heavy,
and how it hummed, cleaving the air.
The discomfort of dew-soaked sneakers
when he showed you how to catch night crawlers. 

Jot them down, these vagrant firefly memories,
lest they skip away. Some,
like the day he bought you your first fishing rod,
you might use. Others,
like the time you were “It” for hide-and-seek,
and he and his friend took off for parts unknown
by the time you finished counting,
you will not. Don’t censor. Just write. 

Later, when you’re done, sort.
Select just enough stories, not too many, to share,
the way you judged the quantity of worms
that might be needed for the next day’s fishing.
You’re trying to hook an audience,
give them a taste, a texture,
of who your brother was, what he was all about. 

At the memorial service, don’t allow
the shakiness in your limbs to show.
Focus on the task, like he told you
when teaching you the finer points of chess.
Deliver your speech in a clear and even voice.
Make eye contact. It’s okay
if audience members cry, but for you
this is verboten. If you have difficulty
with this notion, remember the way
he teased you when you cried,
as a kid, after that Disney movie
about a cat named Thomasina. 

Do your best to make him proud,
the way you made did, all those years ago.
Even if he never told you directly.
Even if you only heard it second-hand. 

Borrowed Molecules

there is a redbud tree in the yard
with my old dog’s ashes under it,
under the roots that anchor the tree,
the tree whose leaves draw nutrients from the air,
the air that holds a vee
of honking geese whose lonely cries
make me shiver in the twilight 

thinking of my dog
makes me consider the molecules
we swap and share and shed along the way
so that in some manner we become
part of the trees and the air and the birds,
and how people we loved, and even those we didn’t
are part of us as well 

the squirrel under the feeder
the blue jays splashing in the bath
the white pine whose branches sway in the wind
the redbud that grows
over her ashes—everything is flux,
why should come as a surprise
that the world won’t stand still for us 

time marches on
with the relentless, undulating pace
of a centipede on a mission,
speeding us toward the day
when we will become one
with ash and trees, with leaves and vees
of honking geese 

Author’s Biography

Lisa Timpf is a retired HR and communications professional whose poetry has appeared in Eye to the Telescope, Star*Line, Triangulation: Seven-Day Weekend, and other venues. Lisa’s speculative poetry collection Cats and Dogs in Space is available from Hiraeth Publishing. You can find out more about Lisa’s writing projects at http://lisatimpf.blogspot.com/. Lisa is also on Bluesky, @lisatimpf.bsky.social