Back when my father still smoked, 
my mother wore dresses at home, 
and my picky eating kept me 
from joining the Clean Platers Club, 
my mother made a no-bake cheesecake.  

Sitting at our dining room table, 
I ate only the sweet, yummy crust— 
didn’t care for the filling my parents 
told me was cream cheese. A disaster 
for my young life, since I decided 
that if I didn’t like cream cheese, 
I wouldn’t like ice cream either— 
cream, and cream, get it? Luckily, 
someone talked my madness out of me 
and I went on to satisfy my sweet 
tooth with crust and ice cream.   

And I’ve kept that up long after 
my father gave up smoking,  
my mother updated her wardrobe, 
and I peeked beyond the four 
corners of our dining room table. 

Five-five sandaled feet,
reed slim,
oval face, high cheekbones
soft wide-set eyes,
light scar beneath the left
delicate features,
winsome smile
playing song she wrote
hunkered down, folded ‘round
well-worn 1930s
Harmony banjo found in dumpster
at age fourteen,
flavor of Carter Family in the air,
calmly glances up while
last notes linger

“Hey you, come on in”

She did not freely bite into the bitterness that kept spoiling her.

Storms can be a balm to a hurting spirit
when they come at just the right time
The thunder booms and shakes the house
but reaches deep inside the soul
and releases the tension built up
and helps the tense body to relax
It is interesting how a turbulent storm
can calm the inner storm in moments

I finally asked the question
The one gnawing at my peace
Leaving me untethered and fragile

I felt so brave, heroic even
Finally forcing the words to leave my body
Sanctioning you to make good

But consolation did not come
You chose a silent response
And I was left 

Unanswered

As we wind the narrow, sun-faded roads
on our way to the lake, my boys laugh at the name, 

not understanding what it means. I explain 
what I know about livestock, the heavy

mineral blocks I put out for my horse as a girl,
how the earth here provides what a creature needs

naturally. Around us, ramshackle barns have seen
better days. There’s a plethora of tiny white churches. 

My oldest observes how there would be little 
to do here, sighs with frustration 

when we get stuck behind a turtle-
slow John Deere for several miles. I remind him

it’s farmers who produce what we eat each day, say
I don’t mind a leisurely pace. We’re in no hurry, after all.

I remember the crawl of my own small-town 
upbringing, worry I’ve caused my children to miss

something vital by giving them a suburban lifestyle.
To be told about a thing and to live it are two different animals.

The City of Salt Lick Welcomes You, proclaims a modest
blue-lettered sign, and I wonder if it’s true

that people, too, can absorb what they need
by way of tongue.

1. The classic heroes journey, leading into
2. the darkest hour, coming right before
3. evil is defeated.
4. and then a prequel,
5. a sequel to the prequel,
6. In the present day, evil returns somehow,
7. a sequel to the sequel.
8. A minor character from the original movie gets to be the star–
9. the star of the previous installment dies at the beginning.
10. The original leads return to fight a returning evil.
11. A new generation of heroes rise for something unsuccessful.

Today I picked and ate
   wild blackberries.
They were small,
   but black and sweet.
Isn’t it a little early?

I don’t remember
   blackberries being ripe
until early July.
   But, there are lots of things
I don’t remember.

           s    c
         e        r
       h          a
      c             c
     n               k
   a
 r
B

Birds  
                sc                  ter
                        a t

Leaves  f      l    y