Her stripes will never be white-washed
Her rudbeckia sun
Will never be tilled under
What cheapness have you done?
Your patch of earth, a briar field
Tall thistle lines your way
When beauty comes to ask you
What answer will you say?
Has no explaining
Nor does the long grass
I won’t require
Or hold feet to the fire
Of the Squirrel
From my garden
The road’s camber
And beat-down flip-flop wearers
That seem to correspond….
The wish I have to cry
And others’ downturned eyes
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….
In the heat
Be behind us
Can you do that?
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.
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.”
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