sleeping deeply or so I thought
yet creeping through the cottoned ease
a sharp crack
in the night a mundane daytime sound becomes a world
enshrouded in attention I remember where I am
atop this mountain surrounded by the family of aspen by rocky fans spotting the horizon by snow coated vistas no camera can capture by wonder
and the bear
trying again to open the bin
take his due for living amongst these humans
a rumble of wild grace asserting its primordial claim
When it would rain,
Many years ago I walked,
Holding to my mamaw’s hand,
We traipsed across the mountain,
Over onto company land.
Of course the company had abandoned it,
Once the mines played out,
And in that worn out soil,
Only stunted pines and broom sedge sprout.
But the thing that drew us there,
In a field so full of gloom,
Was at this time of year,
Wild strawberries were in bloom.
I didn’t know that we were poor,
I never gave it a thought,
Make the most of what you have,
Was just what I’d been taught.
Our farm and cellar kept us fed,
And the few things we couldn’t grow,
We found them in the woods,
Mamaw taught us where to go.
In poor soil ‘neath the oaks,
The huckleberries grew.
Along with the mountain tea,
We chewed it’s leaves and berries too.
But by the end of May,
On this ridge near pines and sedge,
The best wild strawberries grew,
Along a sandstone ledge.
We dropped them in Mamaw’s bucket,
At least the ones we didn’t eat,
We surely couldn’t help ourselves,
They tasted oh so sweet.
And with the bucket filled,
With all the berries we could find,
We’d head homeward once again,
With our backs turned to the mines.
Now, today as I was walking,
Through my farm’s poorest field,
And thinking to myself,
How some lime might help the yield.
I wandered out along the thicket,
And what did I chance to see?
A last late season strawberry,
It seemed it had been placed there just for me.
It had just reached perfection,
The taste took me back nigh fifty years,
I closed my eyes in memory,
And to help blink back the tears.
That last strawberry of the season,
Spoke a wondrous tale to me,
About a boy who had natures riches,
Though he was poor as poor could be.
“Oh
A ten dollar Bordeaux
What’s a nose?
‘Hints of shaved chili pepper’ “
She reads off the lable I suppose
“Cotez de Bordeaux
Puts me in mind of our old scow
Hung our legs off the prow
She’s a water nymph, I know
“A fragrant of Norse fir, swamps, schysts, alpine
Now she’s making it up, laughing all in time
Sharp on the tongue, a boquet of be ye young
It can stand up and be a ton of fun and yum”
After a second glass it’s
“Park me at your portal honey
This bordeaux is where it’s at, like milk and money”
Over the rainbow, here we go
I feel a slight touch on my arm and look down
and………….it’s a spider
Despite the heavy circumstances in my life and a
migraine weighing me down
I fly to my feet and spin around trying to dislodge
the creature that is much more nimble than I am
I try leaping as each joint in my body complains,
I try flicking it off, but as we are both moving,
it evades me and continues to run down my bare arm
I rush to the door and fling it open and continue
my graceless dance on the porch as the neighborhood
begins to wake up for the day, I am pretty sure I am
yelling at this point and I feel sweet relief as the
eight legged arachnid jumps from me to the porch railing
as I sigh and begin to realize where I am and who else
is present. I wave to my neighbor and say a chipper
“good morning” as my face floods with color and I realize
I am acting very odd, but to be honest, who cares?
The spider and I are both safe it’s not crawling on me
anymore. I sigh and begin my day, hopefully without
encountering any more of God’s eight legged creatures.
No.
We can’t buy curtains for your bedroom window.
I know you need privacy. There’s a tablecloth, semi sheer
you could fold it in half & drape it over the rod.
No.
I can’t buy you a new coat. Yes,
I know you’ve outgrown your old one.
No.
I don’t have a dollar.
I don’t have a quarter.
No.
There aren’t any treats tonight.
Rent is due tomorrow.
No.
The cable is not back on.
No
You can’t turn the heat up so high.
No.
I didn’t know
I’d have to say
no
so many times.
Lace up and just Tri
Tri this. Tri that.
Tri to run and tackle the brick
Jump on my bike and tackle the air
Then with fire in my thighs,
my reserves running low,
tackle with gusto
another run.
Rome wasn’t built in a day,
and I wasn’t either.
One brick at a time
One day at a time.
Always standing and staring
at the edge of the pool,
with a lump in my chest,
but today I will face my fears.
Dive-in maybe not head first,
but definitely feet first.
My body will lead the way
as it has always led.
I want to Tri everything
without the slighest reservations.
Land. Air. Water.
I will Tri it all without hestation.
I want to live empowered.
Each year I admire her peonies,
the lady around the corner who stops
us now on our evening jaunt – boys
pedaling bikes, my husband and I
trailing on foot with the dog.
Tonight they are still buds,
fat green fists on the cusp of losing
their grip around pink petals
aching to burst from within. But the bed
beside them, she says, holds a nest.
Beneath a peeled-back clump of dirt
and dead leaf hide three baby bunnies
tucked together tight, one soft mass
of umber fur and astonished eyes
blinking wide in the stark new light.
