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.

11 Replies to “Sweet Grass Song (NaPoWriMo #8)”

      1. Also, from yours “I think parentheses where words are
        insufficient & I fill them with silence.” –just incredible! The thick pelt…what an amazing poem.

        Like

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