Sunday, December 20, 2009
A daughter kissing frost.
And a dead car in the woods.
Stamping symbols into the snow.
And mother-daughter moments.
And group shots.
Son and daughter, with skull.
Letting them make their way.
However long it takes.
Because it is so beautiful.
And to get lost
for two hours
in the woods
with the coyote
is reason enough to rejoice.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
I stopped for horses in December.
I wrote a poem in November.
November 23, 2009
Coleridge would shudder, but the sun rose
on my morning run down the sanguine dirt road
like Neapolitan ice cream. Dog-less now,
and man-less, too, but some days I can’t help believing
things might just be okay. The geese didn’t stir
from the lake. I watched two coyotes
in the field beside my house
and they watched me back. I keep getting into these
staring contests. Then the horse I like best,
the palomino: we got into it, too.
The legs were working today, despite
months-long self-abuse. You see I am hopeful,
oh woman who ordered me to stop writing
sad poems. A few good runs
and I set momentary sights on a marathon.
And the white-tailed deer today. They broke through
Frank’s fence and kept crossing
the road like the cars of a train —
I lost count. What else. At the post office
ten old farmers corralled
the coffee row table — Hans, Frank, Ron, Jim ...
their monosyllabic names
more familiar to me than friends I once had
in the city. Roger says Coffee, tea or me?
and I say Coffee, but tomorrow.
Today I’m taking my ruddy face home. I’ll skin off
these sopping layers and horde each cup
of the galloping light.
What will January bring?