I can’t remember the last time that we hiked three days in a row

But it was finally Spring after a long dragged-out cold spell in May
And that seemed unusual
Although my Facebook memories tell me it had been this cold this long for the past few years
But the pandemic made time run differently and everything was out of sorts then

So a warm long weekend when impending rain held off until more opportune hours, beckoned us to come out each morning
And it feels like humans are just meant to walk outside, in reflection and silence

It was our same well-known path, that front trail is our private slice of Heaven Must be a Kentucky Kind of Place. Being creatures of habit, it was the same time of day, Hell even wearing the same clothes – and yet we had three completely different hikes

Friday was post-concert, pre-rain, the weekend is full of promise
The dirt was bone-dry and dusty, the greenery finally starting to open but waiting for the rain which was expected but not actually coming
There was a doe, watching us warily
And birders, binoculars scanning the trees, and checking the headstones in the homestead cemetery

Saturday started sluggish, hungover
There was just enough rain overnight to barely dampen the dirt – and explode the world in color
Wild strawberries, butterflies and bluebells – red, white and blue – daytime fireworks
There were turkeys in the farm field behind the back fence, four big toms
They answered when I called, put-put-put
It smelled green and floral, vibrant and alive, and made us feel the same way

Sunday after the thunderstorms was sunny, soggy and strangely surreal
All the blackberry canes had flowered overnight
But yesterday’s remaining flowers were flattened and wilted, a Salvador Dalí painting
Rain had washed out the previous day’s scent, replacing it with the sickening sweetness of rotting honeysuckle
There were strange birds, dark blue with chocolate brown, airplane-shaped wings, zooming overhead, chattering and mocking us
And a tiny ssssnake, curled in a ball by the side of the trail, just basking and sssstaring at us

The trail bloomed and wilted like the weekend itself

Heat scorching from the ground

Like the hands of hell

Are scratching at your shins

Ripping away tendon and muscle from bone

Hot like blood escaping your body

Such an exhaustive heat

That crushes on my chest

My lungs struggle for a clear breath

But it rattles heavily against my sternum

As if a balloon blocks the way

Of my breath exiting my throat

Lo in the distance a singular dandelion puff

Grows from the inferno below

A ghost pulling away from limbo

The pappus holding tightly to the seed

Its resiliency rooting down yet growing 

From all that it opposes against it

Am I to eventually blossom

The lion’s teeth spreading like sunshine

Along the mountaintops

In the wax and wane of spring to summer

If only for a moment before

My body reclines into the rest I am deserving? 

that damp ole funeral home

furnace heat cranked up too high

as tho to simulate the fiery pits

i’m yet to find myself residing in,

according to this pastor, whom speaks on His behalf

and yet here she stands, blessing this grave

leaving me to contemplate if she’ll beg for mercy on my soul,
when time comes

or leave me to fall in fires on my own

Grannie was a McIntosh like the red, tangy
tart ones I craved every fall.
Small in stature filled with spunk,
fiercely defiant. Her eyes would pierce
straight to your soul tolerating only truth. 

Frugal from the Depression saving
her used teabags in fridge for two
more dips in her flowery China cup.
A master at bridge and slot machines both
competitive to a fault. Her laughter
filled her visits with handmade flannel
nightgowns I cherished each Christmas.

 Visited her at 19 by myself in California
where she loaded her car with lady friends
as we toured Napa valley wineries.
Feeling lightheaded, I gasped,” Grannie
Are you sure you can drive?” Her friends
giggled saying, “We could never ask
Quilla that question!” Grannie glared
in the rearview mirror putting
her pedal to the metal.   

4 hours this time
potassium infusion
polyester furniture and hospital smell  

not the retirement you planned
instead of some splendid sunset
it’s scans
and syringes
and smiling like it’s fine  

4 hours last time
MRI roadtrip
tubes and tired and tomography  

you’ve been working too much
half-days adding up
so we hold hands
and hide and hope
and heaven help us all  

we lick the word from fearful lips
lymphomalymphoma  
lucky you

I recall...

You said "I love you" too soon
Then you flew me to the moon
And... It didn't take much
To be convinced of your love

They said I was what you needed,
That you came broken and defeated
Your touch was constant
Your voice... Heaven sent

I made you "better," you said
Claimed without me you'd be dead
Yes, it was all about you,
While I dodged daggers you threw

I recall... 

The "waiting" and worried nights,
Followed by merciless fights
Your words of venom erupted
And my untethered soul, disrupted

Attacks that lacerated my spirit
Shocked how quickly the fear hit
While your eyes blazed of fire
      It was then... 
Your thrown grew even higher

I recall... 

Definitively splitting you,
Unequivocally, in two
Tolerate "Bad" for what "Good" would do
But... Then, apologies became few

How vastly the tables shifted,
Through pieces of me you sifted
Finding weak spots here and there
Knowing which parts to tear

I recall...

When you went from red to green
And from warmth to cold and mean
Then to red and back again
But your pull would always win

Captivated by the high you'd give
Weathered by the lies you live
Smothered, my breath you'd take
Uncovered what you couldn't fake

I recall...

The shivers down my spine,
The tears that finally weren't mine
The desperation in your voice,
Intent to manipulate my choice

I recall...

A haunted vision of myself
I looked so small, just a shell
Starving body, starving heart
Broken pieces, torn apart

I recall...

Moments of gathering shattered pieces
Dead eyes that forgot what peace is

I recall...

When my greatest fear was you leaving me,
Then it became of how you treated me

I recall...

Hiding, lights off, on my kitchen floor
Through tears I said, "No More"

What I recall...

Is that it was real,
What you did, you can't conceal 
And I will keep recalling
To keep myself from falling...

For you,
    To you,
        Or 
         Because of you
Ever
    Again.

“Tell me, what else should I have done?” Mary Oliver

I call her NannyCat these days, DotDot, I mean
or DotDotDot in full, an ellipses, an invitation to paws.
for a moment.

You would love her, I know it.

I am playing at being a poet, 
Turning the wild unjudgment of nature into commodifiable verse
To weave my existence into this tapestry like I belong
or try to.
NannyCat nee DotDot hollers from the doorway, 
an insistent, meepy roar
again, again, to me, her misplaced charge
to get the hell in the house and take a nap.

She speaks her admonishment in full sentences as I gather
    My beverages:
                A caffeine, a sweet, a water, mostly-ice &
    My wits:
                -List pending-
and follow her into the house

I am meowed to bed 
Belly biscuited to tuck me tight.
Makes sure I am settled 
Then goes to guard the front window

There, the sun dapples just right
Across brindled fur amid her yellow, fluffy blanket

I made that. Just for her.
I am more than just this desperate need for nurturing.
I have always known how to love you.

you were my teenage basketball
not in the sense that I dribbled you
(though, yeah, I guess I did)
but more like
you were always in my hands
in my head
bouncing around
keeping me up at night
making me think I could fly
if I just jumped hard enough.
you were the sound of sneakers on asphalt
and that one streetlight humming at 9pm
when I should’ve gone home but didn’t
because I wanted one more shot
one more word
one more maybe
from you.
you weren’t good for me
not in the way that late-night caffeine isn’t
but god, you lit me up.
every look was a fast break
every text was a buzzer beater
and I swear, when you laughed
I won.
we don’t talk now
and that’s fine
I’ve traded hoops for sleep
and metaphors for silence
but every once in a while
when I walk past a court
I still hear your name
echo off the rim.

Baby copperheads,
Papa Wolf patrolling den,
Elk warning bugles
Calf hidden in the tall grass
Resisting the urge to charge.

This year cicadas sing, and
their tune echoes in all these hollows as
they fly between trees on a quest for
what comes next.

I heard a couple whippoorwills and
a bobwhite the other night,
watched a timberdoodle cross the road,
and a giant pileated woodpecker
claim a tree on my path.

Chicory blooms along roadsides,
vibrant indigo against the greenery,
daisies dot fields, and the peach trees
hold hundreds of small, fuzzy fruits.

Inky caps pop up on abandoned hay
bales in clusters of untouched decay.
Soon chanterelles will weave between roots
through the woods and black trumpets
will peak from leaf litter, and I will watch for
them to add a little zest to my meals.

This year, I am trying harder to see
these hopeful signs at least
twice as often as I watch the news.