Secrets of summer lemonade

Bills stacking like houses of cards,

poised to crash like the economy.

Bills used as cup holders,

place holders, tissues and napkins.

Bills delivered by mail, by cyber waves,

by stork.

But we’re outside in the garden,

climbing into the branches

in search of carts of lemons,

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ready to be ground into sweet relief.

Set sail

The ship is threatening mutiny,

stretches of time spent in safer water

until the mossy ocean grass has set roots

in the hull, embraced the anchor

in nature’s death grip.

Break away before the ship dives

into the blue like Moby’s wealthy whale.

Crack open the sails, chip through

the webs and dust,

leave before you plan the leaving.

Depart before you know the meaning.

A ship needs two things only:

two captains and a sea worth sailing.