They took me on a different walk today – round back of the house
where all the excellent burrs and brambles are.
My ankles have paid the price. But I had
delicious coffee with me.
I stood on a bit of construction material,
and 8 x 4 sheet,
and the size was indeed right for a poet’s treehouse.
I sought clarity,
and got clarity on a completely different topic.
I may have beaten the second law of thermodynamics.
I can tell that it’s coming,
the dead make such a noise in my head.
In the end, though, they will hush and settle. Most of them only need to be told,
“Yes, someone will remember.”
“Yes, I will tell your story.”
“Yes, it will be all right, just you see!”
And then I’ll sit
out on the lawn
with a small cauldron fire
and have a beer with my dad and all the good dogs.
A Very Small Dog,
meek and mild,
runs into his kennel to hide.
Porcupine quills give away his secret:
He didn’t learn the first time.
Soft, small rain
Just larger than fog, enough to fall,
Soft, small rain early, pre-dawn, all over my skin.
Last night, I drove home through amazing fog and foliage
on a stretch of New Hampshire road that I have never seen before.
It was new and luxuriant in its gorgeousness, my senses feasted –
feasted and sated and yes.
I thank You God for most this amazing day.
tip-of-the-hat to e e cummings
A sweet and worthy rain,
very cool, very dense, with those big drops which spatter (you know the ones)
fell on the grass and dogs and me.
A worthy and delicious rain.
Thank you, Goddess of Rain, for this treat
and this laughter
and this running of four-foots and two-foot
and this safe, dry, warm house.
She makes me coffee the night before and puts the machine on a timer.
Acts of love.
I saw the bear sign this morning – wow!
The dogs told me all about it,
“Look!! Bear poop!”
And then they took me down, down a path that was “so lovely!”
That’s what they called it, “A Mhamaidh Glaiseun, come see! It’s so lovely!”
They say things like that.
Lucky me 🙂
Moon beyond the westward trees nevertheless reaches across to tempt the small stars to rest in her embrace,
Only a few, stronger stars remain on watch.
Eastward, sun calls the others to her.
Hunter, Big Dog, Little Dog, Twins, these only remain to guard the sky.
Mist rises from river and beaver bog up into perfectly clear sky.
Gods chuckling with delight at a plan come together.
Can a tree be a poem?
I think that tree right there is a poem
and I will try to tell you about it:
Yellow, so yellow, the sun at sunset, so rich that it shifts toward orange
with stark, dark limbs
which reach eastward toward the gap between the sister-trees
which reach toward the pale yellow-green and the orange and the red and the pine and the nearly black hemlock
as though declaiming.
Can a tree be a poet?
I think that tree right there is a poet
and I will try to translate for you:
Dark, soft earth,
Sun, sun, sun,
Dance with me, sisters,
in the breeze.
I should write about NCOD and wish everyone luck.
Yes, much luck to you and bon courage!
Also, the stars are lovely this morning, clear as a bell.
Yet… the dog got sprayed by a mink, so here is today’s poem: