the higher shift is near
at our fingertips
we could stay in first gear
or fly on our wingtips
we’ve driven here before
getting lost along the way
can we dream no more
and make the cross-country sway?
i wait with clutch in hand
and drive into the night
surrounded by endless land
i wait for the time without fright.
the car picks up speed
and we slide back in the zone
it’s everything we need
yet every fear of being alone.
i forget (as we sit here,
our hamstrings on the boat’s spine)
the colors of the day
was the sky as blue as the jays
darting in and out of trees?
were the forests a mixture of
pine and deciduous greens?
your mouth reaches mine
like the palm of a blind man
cupping my lead home
all i can see now (day washed away)
are contrasting colors of night
silver, black, gray, and white
as sharp as noon in my sight
you press against me (i reach out)
clasping the colors in my hand
your movements trapping them in memory
black unblurrable jagged mountaintops
over silver unpretentious waves of lake
sky’s gray bosom bursting with rainclouds
beneath the full serving of white moon
i forget (breaths heavy with dew)
the colors of the day, see only
carved out images in colors of the night
a hill that even
the toddler tries to roll down
mother tangled in dizziness
surrounded by trees
thickest oak in eastern Kentucky
(takes three of us
to wrap our arms around it)
a forest
as real as it gets
with disc golf mountain bike trails
a muddy creek
and “looks like glass” waterfall
log from one side to the other
yes
in the middle
of
the
city
houses lining the park
with Bermuda grass beauty
sister brother-in-law niece
and i think
why isn’t this my home?
single women in spaghetti straps
men in khakis, collars and ties
linger in line for $3 microbrews
as we soak up the sounds of summer
girls giggle and groove at the front
forgetting for once they’re so small
beer bubbles in belly, beckons a smile
carrying kids through crowds into crescents
the ride home through Victorian
Colonial Craftsman Contemporary
bike lanes on every side street
brings a breeze of love through Lexington
lovely to love, to live, to meet.
spinning black tires
rounding horse farm loop
car wheels slow to watch
begin and end begin again
second daughter around
bullfrog discoveries
on the path that never ends
toddler sliding grinning
again and again and again
stroller tires bumping along
rounded out by a golden circle
settling itself on
spherical shoulders of trees.
for you
it is the word
the life
the soul
for me
an annual cultural show
actors shifting, shouting
trying to convince me
you thank me
beg me to return
perhaps i will
but no season tickets for me
no standing ovations, bravos
for words that are lost
among the shouts, the anger,
the heavy weight of guilt
for a life i love too much.
with chunks of chicken
sticker books and melting chocolate
crinkly bags of beef jerky
mini pencils strewn like petals
crumbs in every crack
we make our way along the border
its golden sphere beckons us to stop.
we can’t go inside but see the perfect playground,
the grass soft as our new carpet,
the two-story fountain filled with children
who hear it erupt and rush
like carnivorous hawks toward fresh prey,
and i forget
(for all of ten minutes)
that i am not one of them,
but the parent
now soaked from head to toe,
dress sticking to my legs
as my three little girls
weave me in and out of spurts
in our quilt of childhood joy,
sewing up the perfect end
to a dogged day’s drive.
With butterfly wing in palm
Hickory nuts woo her through woods
And she asks questions
Old enough now
For me to be left incapable
Of answering
How can I respond
cotton-mouthed reluctance
Keeps the words
Trapped
Fearful of the truthful
Consequence of her
Coming-of-age reality
Her butterfly wing
Crumbles apart at
The soft blow from her lips
Falls to the ground
In pieces
Carrying my lost words
Back to the Earth.
We are heavy with heat
With exhaustion bearing down
But we climb the hill
With legs we didn’t know we had
In the shade we dismount
Climb into the trees
With feet lusting for lake water
We meet up with the shore
A new day begins at noon
As we slip our sweat sweetly off
Diving into the rocky bottomed
Clear-as-sky freshwater bath.
they have never seen
or collected one by one
bullfrogs hopping into the water
quicker than a wind shift
we pace like predators
around the pond
tiny whispered voices containing
excitement over bulging eyes
there are no mountains here
only hills so dense with trees
you’d never see the rocky bottoms
when we’re so used to rocky tops
instead horses swing reluctant tails
in air as thick and slow as syrup
and we watch a turtle slither on a log
and frog after frog hop into our hearts.
