I stomp back from the barn towards the house
\nattempting not to stoop with age and thoughts
\nthat fool me into thinking I can find something,
\nanything, by looking down
\nmy hands dry with the dust of chicken scratch and
\nmy ankles, sore from excess.<\/p>\n
In the pasture, above the plum trees,
\nsagging with full, white blossoms and wet, green grass
\nthe sky, acting superior in its manner while
\nswallows soar in circles above my head.<\/p>\n
I catch the morning light as it presses lightly
\non their rusty orange chests
\nmaking them blaze like the fire that burns bright
\nbeneath the kettle that awaits me.<\/p>\n
The cup-shaped nest of a breeding pair
\nbelongs to these same birds, is theirs for the taking,
\nthe ones who return each spring
\nand fly with their babies for sport now.<\/p>\n
I stomp back towards the house
\nconsult with the cardinal-red climbers
\nextending their blossoms
\nas they make their voyage up the fence post,
\nseeking knowledge, too, of the morning sun
\nI aspire to reach beyond my grasp, as well,
\nfollowing my first sip of tea.<\/p>\n
Mist Rising I stomp back from the barn towards the house attempting not to stoop with age and thoughts that fool me into thinking I can find something, anything, by looking down my hands dry with the dust of chicken scratch and my ankles, sore from excess. In the pasture, above the plum trees, sagging … Continue reading Rosie McMahan<\/span>