Poem 25, June 25
After Walking on a Cool Morning
Walking after days of Kentucky heat
& humidity, I stare down this page,
looking for words to write,
looking into my psyche where
intimate words are best kept secret.
My walk was no flight like the crickets
in fescue, escaping my feet, first one, then a pair,
blacker than a cloudy night,
their world the only stage
from which they sing, to the drumbeat
of their legs.
After walking, in my own space,
I confront the page. There are shades
over the windows that hide me
from myself. I am reminded of blinders
on the red mule I plowed behind.
to the left, to the right, reminders
of the sweet taste of green, she surely
spies ahead, for the blades
of corn wave toward her nose, her face,
& I can read the quivering of her legs.