Breeched
Early March and spring is a dangerous breeched birth,
too soon and angry, crying out from the sky womb,
destructive in sudden life and improperly twisted,
blind and dogged for attention and proper sacrifice.
The thawing ground turns its eyes in fear, hunching
its back and shoulders against the child’s rolling howls,
a hunger swelling and streaking down arms of hot light
in grasp for suckle upon the earth’s tired winter breast.
Fracture
The first lightning of the season visited last night,
sudden flashes like headlights brushing the house,
strobes in my writing room, hints of warm things
promised, but punctuated with the thunder’s delay,
its faraway caution rolling and tumbling the dark.
A subtle reminder that the change is seldom instant,
that lightning and thunder all at once should serve
as a warning, that you’re too close, the senses jolted
open and vulnerable. Seasons should yawn open.
No matter how cold you’ve become, how you despise
getting up in the morning to the bitterness of the air,
warmth will return eventually, like treating frostbite,
first with cold water, then the careful adding of heat.
You must be patient, welcoming the delayed assurance,
or the moment’s brilliance will most surely take you.
Waiting on biscuits
and gravy
The well pump between the fireplace and me
is bolted down on a banister and waterless.
The cast iron pots hanging near the fire
are hot but empty as always.
The framed
photos of pioneer men, women, and children
stare, naturally anxious about the next meal.
The pictures make me sad. I’m compelled
to scribble out the lost histories of these
long gone folk on dinner napkins and leave
them to be found. But doesn’t every found
relic here deserve its history restored? Every
random trombone, scale, ax and hammer,
guitar, oil lamp, framed fruit box label,
winter sled, two-man saw and coffee can.
After a while it all lures you in and you’re
almost convinced that maybe the only
real things remaining are the constant snap
of the hearth and your own growling belly.
