Wending the Way

Even the snowfall knows spring is near –

The weekend gives time for my hands to heal. There is a certain way in which a body hurts that provokes a joy girded by ongoing moments. Sinewy strings cross thighs and haunches to anchor into the hip. They are acute and I am aware.

In the sluggish dream before dawn, the two clans were fighting an ancient war at the bottom of two lifeless hills. I stood at the top and saw the end before the end. As I made my way into the family barn, I told the leaders that they would die with their tribe unless they hid. I am the messenger.

There is ivy holding the tree and there is ivy streaming over and through the brave privacy fence. We keep fighting nature to preserve the work we think we are meant to perform or keep or endure. But what about water under the bridge? The coffee is cold and the deck is rotted through yet the ease of water wending the way is effortless and a joy a to behold!

She that is me also knows a certain way, and she must walk it. Maybe in ink, maybe in tears. Well anyway, I'm pretty sure Kenya and her elephants have forgotten my name by now.

in the dogwood

in the bush –

I suckle
at the songs
of swelling