Thursday, November 19, 2015

Humming to Myself

I have not hummed words to myself
since the tomatoes ripened and flooded
our hands.
But now,
the white bird feeder sways in a colder wind,
the feathered-ones somewhere else, hunkered,
the browned leaves restless on the still-green grass.
Such a joy to sit, and watch clouds race each other,
to feel my dog lean now and then against my knee.
Love needs such easy waiting,
watching for white snow and candle-light and
the hot-chocolate comfort of a Christmas wedding.
I don’t SEE well when time guzzles gasoline and miles,
when the florescent lights smear colors and calendars
into a mush of Halloweenthanksgivingchristmas gaudiness.
Later, when I put my head against my horse’s neck,
I will not be thinking of blue ribbons and white gloves,
but rather,
 the earthy smell of him,
his long neck bending and wrapping around me—
an equine benediction,
a slow and rambling love poem,
to the other half of my soul.


No comments:

Post a Comment