Things are so different now

I watch the steam rise from my shower water

I think of painting purple walls

Honestly it’s hard for me to even write about

Because I know you’ll never see it

I dream of you less now

My voice rarely whispers your name

Jess

I wonder how you are

If she’s with you

I wonder if you still write about me

The point in my arm is sore

It radiates up my arm when I think of you too long

I push myself closer and closer to the edge

On your name

Jess

On my fear of falling all over again

It pulsates now

As I write

Yet another poem for you

I stare blankly into the mirror

As questions bounce in my head like pinballs

I repeat lines of my own poems

My skin sheds again and again

As if to prove a point

You’re no longer here

And yet you continue to stake your claim

And I fear, like I did then

That I’ll never be able to say no to you

Jess

we classify you as a beetle,
call you “firefly”, “lightning
bug”, “glowworm”, but
i wonder if you
have a name for yourselves–
an identity, 
purpose

you seem to emit your glow
to attract a mate in the
gathering darkness of late
twilight

the fields in which you fly,
like star fields
winking in and
out of existence

when we were children,
we would gather you into
Mason jars, carry you 
inside, placing you
beside our beds to act
as tiny guards against
the creeping pressure of
the night

your pale yellow light
much like that of the 
sun–like miniature lighthouses
to guide us through the dark
until, together, we reach
the dawn

Summer is a break in routine for many people
with schools out, summer sports, pools open, and 
nature has put out it’s welcome mat and entices
everyone to come spend time there
It’s just different from other seasons
At this point in my life, I am over being super busy
and overscheduling my life.  There is something
delightful in choosing activities that are focused
on just being.  Being present, being relaxed, watching
something, listening to something, exploring something
I think I will make this a goal to keep this state of mind
throughout the year, and focus on just being the person
I want to be and including things and people in my life
that bring me joy, peace, and a summer state of mind

Hornets flying low above the sea.
They’re coming in — by twos, by threes.
Where shall they shed the rage
that’s weighing on their wings?

On the narrow pier, a man appears.
He’s brought a bucket and scoops seawater inside.
Then he sinks back into his solitude
beneath an anchor-shaped cloud.

What use is that slippery water —
to pour onto the fireplace?
Its breath is dark, it weighs like mercury,
and leaves a bitter taste.

The boats are grieving, these buffaloes at noon,
their smooth flanks washed by waves in the bay,
as the sea curls up to die beneath the tetrapods
on its last summer day.

As if for one last time, I’m breathing in and out
the sharp and salty air.
Slow fish flicker in my brain,
fleeing the trawl nets they find there.

If aging gracefully is like ballet
this must be the antithesis. A dramatic
drunken stumble across the stage
limbs flailing
defiant mumbling 
a performance everyone wishes would end
and yet 
the show must go on 

Dragonflies
know no boundaries
as they land soft on my shoulder,
touch down in my hair,
rest momentarily at my feet.  

Their elegant dance
surrounds me this summer day
in the sultry heat as if they rejoice
in rising temperatures
absorbing moisture in a flutter and spin.  

Iridescent wings dappled in green and blue
stretch wide across the horizon
dripping sweetness and grace
along the ridge, hover at mid-morning
summoning a procession of followers.

It’s foaling season in Kentucky.
As I make my way down the road
I pass field after field, fence after fence,
and say to my husband:

Can you believe there are people who don’t see horses every day?

On my drive to work,
I pass no less than four different horse farms;
each with its sprawling acreage,
its soft rolling hills, its pastures rich with grass,
perfectly manicured by the constant
grazing of these lovely beasts.
My husband turns to me and says:

Can you believe that you don’t see cacti every day?

He has a point.
My landscape is limited, also.
I don’t see towering mountains
out my window and I’m more
than a day’s drive away
from an ocean breeze.

I don’t encounter eagles often,
though I see hawks every day.
I’ve never seen a pink fairy duster
or a prickly pear, but my roads
are lined with ditch lilies, and the wild
budding of purple cone flowers
and black-eyed susans.

Who would I be if all these years, I had been handed a different landscape?

What if I had never experienced
being nestled at the end of a holler–
serried between foothills and forest?

What if my gardens had been filled with
cauliflower, celery, and English peas,
instead of tomatoes, corn, and zucchini?

What if my eyes hadn’t feasted
on palisades–those stone-faced
guards guiding the Kentucky River?

What if I hadn’t been fed bluegrass
and wide open skies at sunset
that look as good as cotton candy?

Who would I be if I weren’t made of Kentucky?

                For Bill Brymer

1
The streets
are lonely, yes—
you walk around all day
& no one ever looks at you,
no one.

2
You stand
in line for lunch,
look for shade in summer,
stay out of the wind in winter.
You wait.

3
At night
you find a place
to sleep with no one else
around. Settle in, one eye shut,
one not.

Distant Kin

I stood out in our field last night,

And gazed up at the stars,

I thought about how small I am,

How big and bright they are. 

I thought about how supposedly,

We both began in the same place,

How I’m created from star dust here on earth,

As they were in outer space.

If we can believe the folks who know,

Whom I’m inclined to trust,

That same great mass of cosmic dust,

Made up both of us. 

They wink, and blink and flicker,

As they stare down at me,

And I wonder, as I look up,

How do they feel and what do they see?

Are they as much in awe as I am of them,

Our celestial kin from far away,

Or do they grieve as they look down,

What would they have to say?

The life of a man is short you know,

Shorter than the light of a star,

But they may also have passed away,

Before the news travels quite so far.

Perhaps that is their message that they send down,

A cosmic love note to us,

“We cast our light while we may,

Before we return to dust.

And you, oh man,

Whose time is short to walk upon the earth,

Do as we and blink and dance,

And burn bright for all you’re worth.”

It’s truly a wonderful lesson,

That I take away from them,

May I cast my light for all to see,

Before I fade and dim.