You Should Have Seen Us (NaPoWriMo #11)

Dear Future Me,
You’re going to be better, right? Than I am right now? Please drop me a line and let me know it’s all going to be okay.

Dear Earlier Me,
You should have seen us. Serene and, is it placid? Better than placid because we’re vigorous and right there. But when the moment turned–there are an infinite number of these moments–we didn’t turn too. For example, when we were riding Gus, maybe the fifth time when we were both becoming comfortable with each other, he skittered sideways from the poles that had been there all week. Before, we might have bent his head around, spinning to a stop, gasping through what might have been. Running the multitudes of bucks and bolts and falls and injuries before the spook had its second step. Instead, we added leg. Instead, we moved with him. Instead, we danced the diagonal, turning the unexpected energy into poetry–a leap into the future and harmony. An embrace and shaping that became beauty. You should have seen us, relinquishing at least enough control to learn how to soar.

Pop-u-LAR (NaPoWriMo #10)

Brown-handled scissors,
Used twist ties,
National Park expired pass.
The new fishing license tsks, hand on hip
“Whenever I see someone, less fortunate than I,”

The washer nudges the screw
“What’s with this guy?”

The license twirls around, sexy pose,
“And let’s face it, who isn’t less fortunate than I?”

The asparagus rubber band blushes a deeper blue
“My tender heart tends to start to…..”

Muffled swish.

The building shed brochure,
Brushing off dust
From the narrow space,
Winks at the blue band.

Light shafts in.
Scissors, pass, washer, etc.
Shift from opening.
“Honey, have you seen my fishing license
“I think it’s in the junk drawer.”

Little jazz hands
Drumming at the space
Under the drawer
Unheard.

Sweet Grass Song (NaPoWriMo #8)

My teeth were gone
By the time you
Called the vet with the
Needle.

Mine had become
Bran-mash-applesauce mornings and
Creaking out to the great oak.
Following it’s shade.

I wish I knew how to tell you
“Don’t cry,” when
you pressed our foreheads together .

How to say that
Those bones you found
Were Fred who
Pulled the mower for
His own hay before I and even you were born.

He claims he was dapple gray.
How could I know?

These days, our bones
Are resting.
Our present is a dream of the past:
Apple cores and chubby children’s hands.

Mostly, though, deep sleep and
Galloping through the
Tangled roots of the
Great oak.