tryingpoetry

The Waiting Time

I have a season for waiting when the sun is low in the sky and the rain doesn't stop for days

In the time of waiting my restlessness grows like garlic bulbs poking out of the ground

In those days of waiting I find the other things and make plans of the days to come

When the waiting ends I'm ready for the sun to be high in the sky and the rain stops for days

I drove down the hill

I drove down the hill next to the lake and saw the big timber in mist I nearly cried

The wild places So far away from my tame home Tied my heart

The stones speak to me of the time long ago when the rivers were full

The Sea

The sea calls me home every day and I don't understand Umanaya calls me and the sand gets in my toes and the breakers are long out into the bars behind them the swells hide the light and the sun boils into the red with the wind in your face burning your cheeks and you feel the done

A Mother and two Daughters

I love hearing them happy Sweetness in the air Like honey in my nose

Like house sparrows singing On the edge of a garden I love the sound, it makes me happy

July 4th

The beer rolls over my tongue before it waves over my mind gently because it's been a long time and everyone is napping

The world is in first gear working to get off the dime from a surprise stop-sign octagonal red

It makes the bog sleepy and that's how I like it the hammock in the garden while the tomatoes try to set fruit

But I don't like why it's sleepy or the knees on the necks of good people

Goddamn I'm Thin

My emotions stretched out drawn around the posts and signs pulling tighter

To bounce with a pop but damnit don't break

Singing

The sapsucker sang at the peak of the roof carelessly ignoring me and most all of humanity only grateful for a high perch

Spring

Spring hasn't sprung but it's getting closer seeds in the ground marks my season sun on the porch and the songs of robins and sparrows

We're all home now, like the old days before cars and in each other's space and I can't stretch my legs enough except

When I haul the lumber to the garden knees in soft soil, dark brown and caked sweat falling off my face bruises on my shoulders

Bare new kiln dried wood smells like work and new things But the bog will eat it over time and until then It will hold back the canary grass While seeds are sewn

February Rain

Glossy faceted lights halogen and filament and led poke and bounce around the gray sky the crystal clear drops clinging to windows are gemstones in the gravel taste of the wind in my nose seasalt

Silk

It happens fast and you don't know it because you're the frog and not the cook

The sled runs downhill like it's on rails but it doesn't cook that way

And the brakes burn acrid ozone in your nose but you crank into the turn