One blog post to write with
Two sleepy-with-summer eyes for
Three sleeping soundly little girls who’ll have
Four days with me in the upcoming fortnight, though
Five days would make us all a bit happier, especially with
Six over-mountains hours separating us, though we can make it
Seven lonesome (for me) days until we meet again, especially with
Eight personally-picked items in each (never do this) gift bag for at least
Nine hours of enjoyment (I’m hoping for more), my heart will crack right at
Ten in the morning as they buckle in and take off, my loves with my lover for
Eleven time-with-extended-family, miss-them-already, counting-down-the-days.
vacation
Relish
What’s not to love?
Peaches and blackberries from here
in JUNE
(I’ve met the farmer, seen the farm)
a petting farm the kids will never forget
the endless two lane roads that
lead to forests, lakes, rivers,
showing off idyllic red barns,
columnar farmhouses,
well-tamed cattle and horses,
and
peace.
What’s missing?
Traffic.
Light pollution.
Unfriendly city slickers.
The rush to get… anywhere, really.
People who don’t know you wherever you go.
What’s next?
Six more weeks of bike rides,
swimming in warm-water lakes,
exploring backcountry roads,
hiking in diversified forests,
and
relishing the place we never
thought that we could relish.
Writing (Riding)
the sun is writing on my back
with an early morning marker
(yellow-orange, scented like
moist soil and ripened pollen)
and i am writing on my bike
as I take hill after sloping hill
under my tires, the curves beckoning
me to the end of the road.
there she waits, a giant sloth of
spring-muddy water creeping
toward the gulf, either side lush
with full-leafed hardwoods.
i wait for them here, moisture
writing on my back, as i relive
the momentous views, the perfect
ride that I never thought could be here.
the sun is higher now, writing across
the sky its midday mark of southern heat,
and they pop out of the car with hugs,
smiles that we will ride into the night.
The Vittetoe Express
It’s June first (my mother’s birthday)
ninety degrees with a slight breeze
that makes this uphill ride tolerable,
and as I pedal along I catch sight of
our illustrious three-tiered shadow.
First me, silver helmet casting sparkles
against the cracked black pavement,
then Mythili on the tag-along, her frilly
dress flowing behind her seat like a
butterfly waiting to escape the heat,
and then the round caboose of the trailer
with Riona singing Christmas songs as I
shout, “Pedal!” when we come to the
bottom of another glorious hill.
Before we’ve even made it to the park
(the one with two playgrounds, a creek
where Elizabeth fetched the girls’ pollywogs,
a Frisbee golf course and exercise equipment),
we have turned every driver and pedestrian
with gaping rubbernecks bent in our direction, and
I have thought of a name for this silhouette of
bikes daisy-chained to one another in harmony:
The Vittetoe Express, a perfect train of thought,
a perfect train of happiness on this
perfect Kentucky summer day.
The Glory of the End
the end is near and we
itch for its arrival,
vigilant as predatory cats,
tails switching,
mouths watering,
eyes glowering,
prepared to pounce on prey
that will only feed us
for the summer months,
when, just as last fall,
we must accept our
new layer of fur,
duck in and out of doors
during cold winter months,
and wait, wait, wait
for the glory of the end,
for warmth,
for spring.
Sapphire Sparkle
It wasn’t enough that we had flown
twelve hundred miles and driven three hundred more—
(the Grand Canyon beckoning another set of tourists)
the pennies my parents handed me to shop with
weren’t enough
(and not because I needed those things)
row after row of turquoise and silver
birds carved out of bone
earrings that dangled or
popped perfectly in the hole
tiny tables shaded from the desert sun
the dust gathering at their feet
like milkweed clinging to the skin
their eyes almond dark
weathered as much as the hands
that wove thick cotton blankets
too heavy to wear here
necklaces that reflected
the perfect polished moments of the morning,
silver that couldn’t be tarnished
with anything less than
the strength of the hands that worked it.
those hands, those faces, were what
my nine-year-old heart ached to buy,
not the sapphire sparkle of turquoise,
but the poverty that seeped
through their thin cotton dresses and trousers,
the braids that hung down their back, frizz-less,
the forced smiles that begged, begged to sell;
but we were poor too (riding in my grandpa’s
ancient station wagon, two years of careful
saving to buy the plane tickets, clothes cousinly
hand-me-downs, camping along the road)
and I knew I could never buy enough
to give them back what so many generations
had already taken away.
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