It rains
and I think of bales
of wet hay
crushing the wind
out of children
riderless ponies
with frayed rope
tied to the pommels
I find it hard to explain
eyeshadow and dead weight
tied to the other end
and girls who would like to
go on in this world
***** by their mother's
stepsons and husbands
the men and women
of learning have left us
so much, I prefer
to look at the moon.

Who am I
to deserve such sights,
to witness this splendor?

Thank you for trusting me
with this color, this light.

Thank you for reminding me
what lives behind the dark.

Whoever, wherever,
whatever you are.

I used to keep a bell jar
full of old fine fishing line
arrowheads, gold coins
and stuff not easy to find

like cherry cured shine from
my mountains of Tennessee

buried in a lunch bucket
twelve paces from the coop
waiting for the moon
who took his own sweet time

slower than a long night
listening to the same hoot
of the same old hoot owl
in the same old dying tree

knowing it was the end
of my days on the Creek
me, I could see it coming
like a dead star's light

from so long ago
I couldn’t possibly know
which old road I’d follow

so holler at me my
friends, my loves
from time to time
wherever you be

whenever your heart strings
are feeling a need
to tell this spirit of mine
your sorrows, your joys
or wishes for
better tomorrows

and I will from somewhere
be there with open arms
and ears and a heart

sewn tight with that jar
of invisible string
that binds our lives together
forever and longer than that
light from a dead star still
burning on shining so bright.