I did not hear
the owl call my name,
nor the hawk squawk
before it dive-bombed me
from the tree line, not
twice, but thrice this
white hot prairie day
yes, there are those who
will say, I came too close
to its nest, and with the rest
of species I must share this space,
but had my staff been swifter the
third time it dove, there
would be a grounded raptor
in the grove, this less than
lovely afternoon

Like water running, strange requiem
things I can't recall, though deep in soul feel
these skies, these burning lives
we are wild in the fields
only a sun, a storm, the rain
passing by.

A close read
reveals that
I am nothing
but a rough draft
riddled with
misspellings—

a work in progress
watered down by
superfluous adjectives,
non sequiturs, and
smothered verbs.

Love is an editor.

She courts me
with a pocket of
sharpened pencils,
blue and red.

She marks me
up meticulously—
dele, stet
dele, stet.

Decades punctuated
by intermittent edits.

Sunlight slanting
through an hourglass.

Her hair as white
as the final page.

When the end comes,
will she love me enough
to give me another pass?

Whenever I cry, a part of me rejoices;
A fragment which knows that to feel,
Keeps me grounded, makes things real,
And loves all my inner voices.

When I cry it is openly and proudly,
Though not in search for sympathy,
Or in hopes someone will comfort me,
And certainly never loudly.

When I cry it is for me, and me alone,
I have lost the gift of weeping once before,
And- having missed it- know that there is more,
To grieve once it has gone.