Her mouth is busy
with the pretend cry
of a baby who looks around
to see if anyone notices

She rests on the musky blanket
under the shade of the trees,
squirms
like a desperate worm,
then stays still
to watch a swallowtail
unfold and disappear

The butterfly’s flittering
causes a stir in her
that slowly edges over
into a full blown performance
of a blowout

                      ###

There is no rush in me,
only a casual saunter to see
the least
of what’s required of me

When I bring her up
to rest her head on my shoulder
she clutches my twisted beard,
pulls hard
to lift her eyes
to the swaying pines

Her blue eyes
are the dual barometers of the world
as ever so slightly they fall
into a baby’s state of grace

ssshwooo…
the whistle of the wind 
through the swishing needles
is our lullaby

She walks barefoot
down a dirt path.
Slow, ponderous strides,
draped in black velvet.
A sliver of the moon hangs in the air,
towering over a copse of tall,
ancient trees. 
She walks barefoot
to the edge of a graveyard.
Slow, ponderous strides,
the mistress in black velvet.
The bite of midnight,
autumn air dancing through the trees.
Singing a haunted tune,
mistress of the night. 

what, specifically, hinges on yes or no
     freedom of different sorts
     relative joy
            joy as opposed to a word I cannot ascertain at the moment
what should be celebratory is a rather forced response
masked as something other than relief
     what is the term for not wanting what you presume to want
          what am I built for
questions to ask before it is too late
evaluate the odds, possibilities, illusions
dare to dream even in the miniscule
God provides, yet what if I want more than God offers

Each day carries new hope and new opportunities
I have learned to keep my eyes open for chances
to recognize special moments, demonstrate optimism, and
spread kindness in a world that needs all of the above

The hand that offers
the grace of our unfolding
is life as it comes.

I’m watching TV — women in big hats,
mint juleps, a parade of sleek
muscled Thoroughbred hips
that glint like gold in the sun.

The cat slinks into the living room, fat
furry grin on her lips, and drops
something at my feet.  It’s pink
and naked, still
at first, then squirming, struggling
to lift its stick neck, raise
the heavy blind head with twin
bulging bruises for eyes.
I call out to my husband.   

I’ve been rooting for the big grey
latecomer named for a deadly
shark, but he spooks
and flips at the starting gate,
scratches from the race.  

Scratches, like a cat’s claws.
Scratches, like a wound.  

My husband gathers the chick
as I scold our pet, though I know
she has only done exactly
what she was made to do.  

My heart aches, but I’m thankful
for compassion —
the way he takes the bird
out of my sight before he does
what he must do.

I am thankful
for preservation —
that today the grey will walk
safely back to the barn, live
to race another day, hear
the roar of another crowd, feel
adrenaline pulse hot
through his veins, do exactly
what he was made to do.

Write your name in bruises
across my chest
Declare yourself master of
my darkest desires
Tell the world I am yours
and yours alone