Tuesday, November 29, 2016

christmas 2016

on soft days,

when the wind wraps itself around me,

bringing with it the echo

of Christmases past—

the sound of children laughing, or

a breath of new puppy smell,

or maybe even a hint

of ginger cookies baking

in my mother's oven—

on especially soft days,

i remember to believe

—Leslie Young, 2016

Tuesday, November 22, 2016


there is rust
in the garden.
i can see it clearly
from my kitchen window.
the iron angel still flies,
but her wings
are oxidizing badly.
and the links
in the chain that holds up
the world—
that fragile blue sphere
of glass breathed
from the heart and lungs
of some unsung
the links in the chain
that holds up the world
are threatened by
the blight.
they persevere.
i am a witness to their
valiant fight against
the power of the elements.

i am a witness.

—Leslie Young, 2016

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

drinking tea in the garden (1933/2016)

Did the German people do
what I'm doing, today?
Did they sit in their gardens,
drinking tea and
surrounded by light?

Did they watch the cat
sleeping in the sun as
the honeybees plundered
the pink lantana?

Did they listen to the white ducks
chuckling and the chimes singing and
the happy morning chatter
of the sparrows in the pines?
Were their hearts breaking, too?

What did they do?

When did they say to themselves—
It's time to act!

Was it when the first boxcars showed up?
Was it that late in the game?
Were they drinking tea in the garden
all that time?

"There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said—no. But somehow we missed it." —Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

Saturday, November 12, 2016


On most days,
Wind is master of the garden chimes,
a tender or tyrannical
conductor, depending on
his mood.
But today, Wind
is making music elsewhere—
leaving Sun to his own devices.

Now the glass is molten
once again. 
Sun, feeling artisanal
and requiring neither
blowpipe nor fireproof gloves—
simply trained his gaze 
and remade the chimes
in his image.