Meryl Natchez

What is the matter with plain old cause-and-effect?

The burden of uncertainty,
how it can ruin even a tulip,
how the weight of it
makes taking care of an infant
hour after hour of it:
milk, sleep, worry, repeat.

Luckily, there are always puppies.

At the edge of your vision,
clouds mass like news,
the endless terrible,
somewhere someone burning,
real but not really real.

The stranger introduces himself,
does that make him any less strange?
Even marrying him?

And time, too,
that winged whatchamacallit.

The jerky pattern 
raindrops make down the windshield
persists, past, present, pluperfect,
future perfect. 

After the storm, golden
fish and chips. The Juncos flash
their wet white tails
undeterred. Worms rise 
through damp soil. Delight 
flits along the veins.