Do not get angry

anxious, addicted—
get annoyed.
Annoyed it’s this chapter
and not a better one;
annoyed that you haven’t
yet become who you will be;
annoyed your desires
misalign to your ideals.
Assume this day, this
decade, this disease,
discomfort, disaster, dismay
is distraction: is an anomaly
from a better eternity, disrupted.
Be annoyed on behalf
of the better times behind
and the golden ages yet to come:
the hopeless never get annoyed
therefore claim annoyance
as the birthright of your iron Hope.

It was perfect, in that moment
like a blue-sky fall afternoon
or the crisp morning after snowfall—
my child perfectly described its scent
with, “Yum!” (and my mind objected
we do not eat roses often, do we?)
But the next day, I looked and thought
it is now too big; the smell will be all
pale subtleties and gaudy petals
over saturated, powderless, common—
meaning beauty is time, as well as
form, function, and all the categories
I never learned.

We didn’t hear it—
one third of a tree, toppling
full-branched into the field.
Around noon, I snipped
a lot of little branches off,
making way for bigger cuts,
drenched in sweat. Men came
from the HOA; but
the trunk was on my land, so
they took their chainsaws
down into the woods, someplace.
That evening I set down my wine
and used a hand saw for a time
until the sweat came back;
we could pay someone, but my plan
is to buy my own chainsaw.
How else could I properly mourn
the little green-ceiling room I liked
out there in the yard, a place of
peace now very gone,
now getting snipped up,
or the tire swing I was proud of
hanging—as I consider
chopping down the rest
since, you know,
it’s quite close to the house.