She Of The Field

Her stripes will never be white-washed
Her rudbeckia sun
Will never be tilled under
Love!
What cheapness have you done?

Your patch of earth, a briar field
Tall thistle lines your way
When beauty comes to ask you
Dear!
What answer will you say?

Justice

The Sun
Has no explaining
Nor does the long grass
The angle
The path
They’ve permitted

Justice
I won’t require
Or hold feet to the fire
Of the Squirrel
Stealing, running
From my garden

Not Illegal

We ache, don’t we

Our trudging, persevering waves

Our praying to not fade away into the vintage

We make you hurt, all we want

The warmth of some sun wrapped so permanently around us

That the days of being exposed and cold….

And alone

In the heat

Be behind us

Can you do that?

A Wild Meander

I don’t want to hear the morn’ coming in; stay at bay.

At my pace, I’ll share my fruit with the wild; bid good day.

When the sun seems warm enough, out I’ll go; come what may.

Truth is, creatures know I can’t resist them; so I stray.

Hypodermic

I wonder how I’d look with the Sun on my face. Not the fast and deep flowing sunlight, who I long ago named Hope. But the actual Sun. Surely the truth and green of my eyes would shine. Surely I’d see my chin lifted ever so slightly higher. Surely I’d feel beautiful. Then, “Hope,” I could say, “move along.”

Mormon Row

With grateful paintbrush in hand, I am leaving space for you

A beautiful a background, careful, I capture the sun

Find now open an area broad enough and close enough to the sky

That your shoulders might fit and comfortably give rest to what is

I know not the shape of you, tho’ your colors, you’ve made clear

Bright-dark weathered patina that complements my tempest greens

Vivid chards of amber to offset my mountainous blues

Your easy frame an open window, a willing respite

Fighting your way, straight to the foreground of me, for me

Withstanding, will they find us, the very wildest of climes

No Longer Doubting

What I am is not a pale, pink flower
Yet, it is only January
And such things are all I see

Time taking its sweet time
Just for me
And silvery, sunny days

Sudden smiles at the door
That I am well-trained to hear
And voices I don’t fear

All as if a reminder
To never expect
And to expect after all

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