My son and I scout out circles 
skimming the murky shallows of the pond,

        shells no bigger than silver 
        dollars, yellow-striped necks electric 

                under the midafternoon sun.
                Downshore, I wander a jagged 

heap of limestone, leap
back at the sound of a slither,

        glimpse black leather
        skin sliding under shadowed rock.

                Should I tell him this is the way it goes?
                You can spend your life searching

for only what’s sweet, and still,
you might step on a snake.

Cicadas begin our journey,
tiny tour guides
leading us to the Kentucky River Outlook,
the brown water still muddied 
from last night’s storm. 

We balance in one another’s hands,
step over puddles, rocks, 
the earth beneath us
carved deep with memory. 

I slip, stumble, never fall. 
We pause to watch a centipede scurry between us,
listen to a barred owl’s hoot,
his nights and days turned inside out. 

Hand in hand, 
we move deeper into Nature’s Sanctuary
toward rushing creek currents 
and silver splashing waterfalls. 

Storm runoff trickles 
along sharp stone edges
filtering through damp moss
and into your laughing mouth. 

The joy of us echoes
between the bases of oak trees,
creating ripples in the streams
as cicadas roar in tune–
first with me, then you. 

These are the moments I carry through May,
when cicadas uproot themselves from the earth 
to sing the sounds of us between their wings.
Our journey will live in the breeze
until the trees stop growing
and silence settles where our laughter stays. 

What if we told the truth
and no one listened?

The air fouled with the breath
of liars turned hope sour

like clabbered milk
stored in a stone jar

Truth was once was sweet

She was thornless;
Kind-hearted and sweet.
But she was thorned.

A rose with thorns took one of theirs and
struck her so she could defend herself.

She gained a thorn.
But it only pierced through like a sword,
Leaving her bleeding out.

She was abandoned.
All the other roses stared,
either grossed out, unsure, or scared to be pricked,

She was left.
But they continued to grow.

I stood in the familiar field of roses,
Looking for MY rose, THE rose without thorns.
Then, I saw the piercing blade in her,
And handed her the one I had.

We love.
We stay.
And I’d pick her over and over again,
with or without thorns;
given or grown

The anniversary of your death approaches.

I usually don’t mark such dates

on my mental calendar.

If I did, there would hardly be a good day

left in the year

with summer being the harshest season.

I still miss you.

We still miss you.

We still talk about you

with affection and wonder,

the miraculous, sweet dog

who was ours for only eight months.

We speak so well of you

it feels like betrayal to the new dog.

We love the new dog as fiercely as we loved you.

But each one is different

and we love you all in different ways.

The new dog is not you.

And you were not the dog

that preceded you.

But you’re our angel

and always will be

Forever loved,

forever remembered.

I didn’t think I would ever love another dog as much as I loved you.

Yet I let the new puppy into my heart

quickly and easily.

You dogs are sneaky that way.

How you both captured our heart

on the first day we met you.

I hope that you are happy

and well taken care of

and spoiled rotten

with everything you want

and deserve.

I hope you eat and nap and play all day

in your heaven.

With the good toys

and the best treats

and plenty of love.

We still miss you.

We still love you.

I will live through the anniversary of your passing

without knowing it,

I carry you in my heart.

I mourn you throughout the year.

You taught us we could love another dog.

You showed us how many good dogs there are to love.

We hope to see you again some day

after we both cross over.

It’s a thought that brings us comfort.

We love you, precious girl.

Is it better to dim my light so much that nobody can see it?

You’re upset with yourself when you are just waiting for your turn to speak. You’re not listening, you’re weak. You’re tired of losing people. The thing you hate the most about yourself is not giving up on people who don’t deserve you and not showing up for people who do/show up for you. You don’t have the knowledge to ask the appropriate question. You know what you want but you don’t want to deal with having it.

Cicadas continue into the night
Their urgency proof
That time is short 
A lonesome whippoorwill 
Repeats his call
Fervently, with no reply
Baritone bullfrogs
Provide the beat 
For a beautiful symphony 

We have a picnic.
Open the umbrellas,
sit out on the deck.
fire up the grill:
hot dogs, brats, burgers,
dill pickle slices, mustard.
I make a trifle in a rectangular glass container
that is attached to a pedestal:
layers of strawberries, angel food
cake, whipped cream,
blueberries–red, white and blue.
My husband notices the significance,
whistles something patriotic.
The grandkids lick every last smear of
whipped cream off their plastic spoons, run
down the gravel path too fast, one loses his shoe,
play on the tire swing until dusk. 
House sparrows are still chirping, chimney swifts are swooping.

I fall asleep on the couch,
listening to PBS,
a show about World War II:
women code breakers, a decoy town
in Seattle where fighter jets are made
underground, Mussolini, 5 or 6 officers
in Hitler’s elite killed for smuggling Jews
to the safety of allied countries.
All of this significant—
Who is watching?

I doze off–
     good night,
          grandchildren,
good night.