Neighbors

I wonder what the neighbors think
of my wandering
shirttail hanging out from my coat
like some robed Persian
zig-zagging through garden and fields
talking
to no one
saying your name
head bent up
toward the stars
I must not seem right

that man who lives alone
they say
with his chickens and dogs
he is some kind
of gardener
you can see his flowers
and tomatoes
all the way from the road

(and you can see cars
parked there too
sometimes at night
and in the early mornings)

he talks to the chickens
and the dogs
and to no one in
particular
if you had to guess
you’d say he seemed
happy
or maybe just a little
cocked
or maybe just
too much
alone
they debate
whether he’s harmless
or dangerous
where he comes from
what he does
in that house
all alone

or maybe they pay him
no mind at all
don’t even notice
his perambulations
or his
bergamot
the Russian sage
that he inherited
or the English cultivar
he planted

maybe they don’t notice
the angels that hover there
or the way the light
of the stars
shines there
or how when he calls
to heaven
heaven answers
and accepts his
sweet surrender
to things that grow
to things that breathe
to things that give
light and lightness
to any willing heart.