Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Sunday, August 12, 2012
From prayer position, breathing deep
my hands arc slowly into outstretched
upturned bowls pausing to receive,
slowly release the lung stretching breath
slowly arc through the hands returning.
When my hands touch I notice
wrinkled finger tips, tight dry palms.
The old cobalt blue bottle is warm
against my lips, the sun sweetened water
glurp glurp glurps onto my tongue and
slides down, slides down, slides down.
I replace the cork, reposition my feet
right by that knothole
left three boards over,
watch out for that splinter,
bend the knees.
Now. Begin again.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
A horse blowing, somewhere out of sight,
thub-thubity, thub-thubity of hooves
then dust and snapping twigs. A white mare
skitters through the trees and down the bank,
clatters splash-splash-splash across the ford,
up the slope to the barn and neighs
like a steam engine coming into the station,
stands chewing, long stalk of hay dangling.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Monday, August 6, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
He looks just like the other eleven year old,
the one that lived here last week,
but instead of whining about being bored
this kid pesters me for paying yard work.
He has already weeded the corner garden bed
taken up a career in invasive mint abatement
washed all the main floor windows
and cleared fallen twigs from the south yard.
So, today we dragged out the red gas mower
and commenced power tool training.
No sandals, put on your boots!
Gas goes here, check oil there,
set the choke like this.
Hold down the red bar,
grab the black tee handle
PULL! ... PULL! ...PULL!
OK, let me pull.
The vibrations runs up both of our arms,
mine around him from behind,
I try not to step on his heels
as we stumble along together
him learning, me relearning,
to operate this growling, grass eating beast.
It’s really too heavy for him to push
but using the power drive to the wheels
makes it hard for him to control.
Back and forth and around in the heat
(thank goodness for the overcast!)
Once I do the fiddly bits you get
in a country yard,
odd shapes around woodpiles,
flower beds and a huge trampoline,
he practices turning corners,
emptying the grass bag
and overlapping swaths
in the central rectangle.
Then, that’s enough. We quit.
Neither of us want to tackle the bits
around the garden and back of the house.
We’ll leave the rest for the grown men.
I don’t want to discourage the new kid
but I’m thinking
next summer will be soon enough
for him to try mastering the mower.
We’ll find other work for Mr. Motivated.
It’s not like we are running out
of weeds to pull!