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?
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