before the make-up artist 
and the hair stylist
a moth joins me in the shower
a quiet moment before
the day’s jubilation

A shout draws me to the window
It is a happy sound
That echoes through the air
Water splashes as more shouts ring

The sun goes behind a cloud
But that doesn’t stop
The water play
On a summer Saturday

This
day
is one
for berries—
currants, blueberries
my cereal’s morning attire.
Then black raspberries grown creek-wild, snack to smack lips on.
Poised to pounce into open palms, tattoo them nature’s way, sweeten even tongue in cheek.

Moon sliver of hope

Waves upon waves

Salt on my lips and in my eyes

We are a gulf

                           apart

What they didn’t tell me–
you have to wear a hospital gown
with wires taped to your chest,
an IV in one arm,
a blood pressure cuff on the other
and that every 3 minutes
they increase the speed and elevation.

So there I am–breathless–
in running shoes and pink hospital gown
tied with a loose string
gaping open in the back
while I trudge steadily uphill.

On the wall before me
as I climb that imaginary hill,
a poster of Positano,
the glamour of the Italian Riviera
just beyond reach.

I continue this Sisyphus ascent
watching red numbers on the screen
increase to 134 when the attending male nurse
whisks me off the treadmill
and onto a table where he has 30 seconds
to measure my vitals under stress.

In case you’re interested, I passed
despite my advanced age.  No one requested
my review of the experience so instead,
just for you,
I wrote this poem.

Mother was royal harvest mist

Words escape me like soft-flying lightning bugs
their gentle signals pulsing in the air

Morse Code dashes and dots float in the warm breeze
and I am nowhere close to catching any of them

It must be better to watch in awe
to let them stay free for others to view and read 

Running barefoot through the woods
Stepping on briars and brambles but
Without much of a care in the world
Feet cut all up, still whooping loudly
A feral Appalachian child, wild and 
Free as the birds in the sky above, 
All summer long in the hills of my 
Eastern Kentucky home; oh to be 
Just another wild creature in the
Cool of the woods,  no cares at all

a naked
body is
just a naked
body
until
someone sees
it. my father wants me to read
a wilting book called God Loves
Laughter. my mother
wants
me
to take
my singular bottle of prescribed
antidepressants. i count the ripples
like tree rings.
years. only after
do i
jump
in and let the cloth
lick up on my
skin. i would live
waiting to look like myself or
at the least
a smeared oil pastel caricature
but then
i wouldn’t

live.

Behind the breath of