from: Stares to Other Places

Breaking the Surface

Bouncing over blue-green water, roaring motor behind us,
we laugh and talk through the wind and spray,
out to look for whales,

Black and white orcas over thirty miles away,
a long distance to go by boat. We hope to see them
break the surface to breathe.

My children lean into the wind, three in front of me,
one by my side...sturdy adults, always my children.
How do they move so fast?

Each was born over thirty years ago,
a long distance to here. My hopes for them
break the surface to breathe.

Three children in front of me, one by my side,
drenched, red coveralls, orange boat, looking for orcas.
Nothing is black and white. All is color.

Weighting

I stare at a puckered line
starting at my navel and going south.
My body parts seem to be working.
Restrictions lifted, I muck stalls, ride horses,
hoist grandchildren in the air.
But every three months
I face another blood test.

The sides of our driveway are now bare,
old brown trees removed, turned into mulch.
New ones with strong roots,
green leaves will take their places.
In the field, a yearling jumps, kicks, spins
goes back to grazing.

from: Roots and Paths

Roots and Paths

Jonquils bloom in my manicured,
mulched yard. Nearby, the woods
still exhale winter,
bare and brown in the morning sun,
nothing green but moss,
leftover sprigs of grass,
the living and the dead
still one.

Leafless vines
surround us. Some hold
half-fallen trees in a tangled
aerial embrace,
others wait like snares
overhead.

Everywhere,
  scattered,
    splattered,
      peeled,
        broken
trees cause us to veer
from the familiar track.
An upturned trunk’s
vestigial roots spread
like a large pelvic bone.
Another’s are hind feet
ready to spring toward us.
A chain-sawed
hollow log is a cannon’s
bore aimed our way.

When I look down the hill, I see
the path where I will be,
heading in the opposite
direction,
on a different plane.
I look up,
see a hint of where I have been.
Both are familiar and foreign.

A fallen tree, caught
in the fork of another,
becomes my rudder.

Missouri Mowing

I wait to find two days in June

when the pasture grass is

ready to be cut

and the Missouri weather will not

poach me.

With the fescue in the fields

more than thigh

high, I wrestle

the Bush Hog onto the tractor’s

power take-off to begin six hours of mowing,

shaving everything in my path.

Donning my baseball cap du jour

and sound-deadening earmuffs, I drive

along the fence line of the first field,

cutting,

circling to the right.

Three-foot swaths

mark my progress,

time moves as slowly

as my orange machine fighting

thick prairie.

Clockwise around the irregular edge,

the blade

spins in a counter direction.

Cutting from the outside in,

I travel an ever-changing

pattern, move from

boredom to

sensory overload.

From the house, the field

seems a block of green,

but hands on the wheel, eyes

opened, I see

vines

intertwined

with ripened seed heads of grass,

bright pink thistle flowers

risen in defiance,

Queen Anne’s lace and clover

in gentle bloom.

Rabbits race from the uncut center

in wild

zigzag

panic.

Bright blue-feathered swallows follow,

crisscross within my reach, gather

insects stirred

into the air by my mowing.

Dozens whirl and circle,

fill their bills,

disappear to their nests and young,

return

for more split-tailed dances.

A faded blue

pickup

leaves

the subdivision across the road,

hand mower in its bed.