Poem 25, June 25

After Walking on a Cool Morning

Walking after days of Kentucky heat

& humidity, I stare down this page,

looking for words to write,

looking into my psyche where

intimate words are best kept secret.

My walk was no flight like the crickets

in fescue, escaping my feet, first one, then a pair,

blacker than a cloudy night,

their world the only stage

from which they sing, to the drumbeat

of their legs.

After walking, in my own space,

I confront the page. There are shades

over the windows that hide me

from myself. I am reminded of blinders

on the red mule I plowed behind.

Even blind,

to the left, to the right, reminders

of the sweet taste of green, she surely

spies ahead, for the blades

of corn wave toward her nose, her face,

& I can read the quivering of her legs.