Breathless
Breath hitches in my chest
Ragged and panting
Uneven, laboured
Steadily plateauing
Only for you to take it away again
Breath hitches in my chest
Ragged and panting
Uneven, laboured
Steadily plateauing
Only for you to take it away again
I rose early before the heat,
while the grass, still wet with dew,
glistened in watery dreams.
Clawing out weeds that would
choke the heart of such singular
beauty – black dirt clinging to hands
and forearms. Sweat dripping a
salty prayer. I protect the tender bud.
My lisianthus, a flower so much
like a rose, with fleshy unfurling petals,
sans thorns and trellis, do not
like their roots disturbed.
No one really does. Do they?
In another garden, toil and words
are lost on the rootless man.
He carries his hate in a golden suitcase,
opens it in his paved garden,
and says, “How beautiful.”
+
Shore birds skitter duneward
while the wave break deposits
morsels for them to peck
from the cooling sand.
Coastlines form battle trenches
between the hungry maw
of ocean and the structures
of avaricious developers.
The deeps are patient.
Between the wild and swirling dark
and the hourglass sands of man
watery tendrils siphon civilization.
Those who push against nature
break the peace for the rest of us.
Global warming or watery graves.
Fire & Ice.
Everyone else easily slid into their kayaks
except me. Being too short to hop up from
chest high water, the guide instructed me,
“It won’t be pretty but just jump up and
belly flop across the kayak.” Looking
at Jim all secure in our kayak, I obeyed
listening to laughter pealing from
the others. Embarrassed, I righted myself
noticing Jim treading water at the stern.
He was the butt of the joke!
Flipping backwards
from the force of my belly flop.
One guy hollered, “Damn, I put my camera away
this would have won America’s Funniest Video.”
We put our name upon the deed
and claim we own the land,
but its been here for many years
and cared for with special hands.
Stately trees rooted in the earth
many before we came,
should we declare their ownership
and show we’ve staked our claim.
The sun and water bring them life
and through time they’ve survived,
this work of Mother Nature
right before our earthly eyes.
We’re simply humble caretakers
of this ground we call our own,
to cultivate and work the land
and ensure that things are grown.
As stewards of this precious land
to improve while we are here,
to leave the land in better shape
for those who’ll come in later years.
I consume it
Its nectar rolls down my elbow
I bury my face in it
Breath in its musk
Like a fresh breeze on a lake
It revives me
I take another hit
Thinking of another reason to indulge in the addiction
It keeps me alive
Guzzling it down
Water on a summer day
Basking in its warmth
A lizard on a rock
Soaking up its shade
Mushrooms under a tree
Inhaling it
A newly surfaced swimmer
I need it
Just like
I need you
Yes, there is trash at the Gate to Heaven.
After all, we are each carrying
a lot of garbage with us as we arrive.
Someone has got to keep The Place clean!
But it’s not those who collected the trash
Earth-side.
They are saints.
They were good friends and family–
unofficial therapists,
lovers and partners,
pastors and priests,
strangers who gifted
kindness and respect–
relieving us of our burdens–
but, most of all,
the actual “garbage men”,
who were anything but–
year after year, they
carried away our refuse,
without complaint or
thanks
purifying our lives–
saints all
discovered…
bones
in Norway
a woman and
her dog nestled together in
a boat 2,000 years …
…
sun shimmers on a muddy
lake in Iowa oven hot
I jump in … my black lab
splashes over me as if
to rescue
I emerge under her belly
between her strong legs
we mingle cold and
laughing over and over
the skinny man
watches
alone unbonded
The signal’s weak out here—just one bar flickers
like a porch bulb gnawed by moths. We pixelate,
our bodies glitching through the net’s strict parameters:
Care. No care. Care with a side of ache.
The foothills don’t care what we name ourselves. The creek
will braid its name through us, will sing off-key
of farm trucks drowned in its brackish teeth.
We kneel anyway, scrub our jeans with wild leek,
press send like a hymn. Our voices crack
as static—Slewfoot, the old ones would’ve hissed,
seeing us twined in greenbrier through the gap
where the fence gave way. But the land won’t miss
our absence–router’s small red eye blinks back,
proof we were here. Proof we were more than light.
