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.
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.
Kentucky heat on a
new side of the state
(one that doesn’t give in
to early sunsets)
guides us up and down
hills on a windless evening
i grin,
back on the bike
after a week,
two whirlwind drives
six states over from
the mountains
as lush vines
thick-as-elephant tree trunks
and curvacious
nonchalant
southern hills carry us home
we stop
just shy of their house,
a perfect park
(playground and all)
distant trees
gripping the edges
of a burning red circle
that strikes
my sixteen-year-old heart
still beating lovingly
all these years later
that same sun
hidden by wisps of clouds
a bright mark of beauty
on the tired world
over the spires and forests
of Oxford
now reappears,
and i have no stairs to sit on,
no lonely walk home,
no desperate inquiries
in a dorm hallway
about what was missed,
but instead
my hands on my handlebars,
him standing beside me,
my sunset shared at last.
trees drip with relentless spring,
weather that doesn’t belong here.
gray skies and chilled air,
we let them go on the last day
we stand under umbrellas, hoods,
huddled in sportsmanslike clutches,
our hands in Miss America waves
as endless yellow buses parade off.
we move into meetings, arguments:
what is best with what we don’t know yet
as rainwater greasily coats the glass,
blocking our view of the mountains.
the parade of buses will bring them back
on a sunny, hot summer day in August,
but we will not be huddled, hands in air,
waving our wanton hands in supplication.
we will wait in gray classrooms, chilled air
as trees glisten with relentless summer,
our view of the peaks shiny and new
their view of the world shiny and new.
you are more than a storm
an obstinate endlessness of cold
hovering over spring
with the arrogance of winter
i wish i could tie down those flags,
see the sun shine on my skin
and roll up and down hills
without a push or a pelt
but i can match you, i can beat you.
summer will come soon enough
i will relish the bearing-down heat,
sweat seeping, laughing at our obstinacy.
trees are like humans
she says
they take forever to grow
they start small
when they’re grownups
they don’t grow anymore
they stay in one place
i want to tell her
they’re trapped by roots
taunted by wind
pelted with precipitation
they never stop growing
you’re right
i say instead
knowing that
how she sees the world
could change by morning
and i should cherish
how she sees it today.
i can’t see
the environmental impact
of the roads
ski areas
and mines along the way.
only the blue sky
long absent
longingly awaited
the sun hot on my skin
waterfalls pouring
from every crevice
of Rocky Mountain rock
and snow still standing
obstinately against all predictions.
i will take this pain in my muscles
to bed with me
as i listen to the roaring river
and try to remember
this perfect planet
we’re destroying
but for now
for today
i am blinded by blue.
i want to be outside of the cloud,
to see the silvery circle of sun
touching the beauteous palm of Earth,
to float above everything below me,
to let the raindrops fall from my wisps
of Heaven-sent dewy collections,
to release within my realm of realization
every bit of darkness that keeps me
here inside this churlishly cold cloud.
i will remember
the pain starting at mile thirty-four
the wind at twenty-six
the snow at thirty-nine
i will remember
the endless rolling hills
the cloud-encrusted Pike’s Peak
the socks over my double-gloved fingers.
i will remember
the ninety-eight-degree Kentucky
the mile-long hills
the luxuriant lack of wind.
i will remember
your wide and comfy couch
your set out towel and hot shower
hot chocolate waiting for me.
i will remember
four kids playing cars
three girls dyeing eggs
muscles sore for days.
i will remember this day
thirty-three degrees
sun and snow and wind
everything blowing around in my mind.
first it’s the wind–
a constant haunt
this time as cold as father winter
then it’s the sun–
at ten thousand feet
quite the mean magician
next it’s the rain–
slinking into the camp
on tails of snow
but it’s the circle i’ll remember–
the women’s voices
calling out ideas
like flashes of starlight
overwhelming me as always
reminding me
again and again and again
that just like that
constant haunt of wind
my love for my girls
all of my girls
is embedded here today.
Step Write Up 