He stands before her
as surveying a Renoir, overwhelmed
by red splashes from her nails, her lips
Entranced by her sparkling blue eyes
and hair swept across her shoulders
its crackle, as wind blown fields of barley
Her words cool him as though
dipped in Box Elder Creek
Her moves have the grace of cirrus skies

He thinks this is a settling place
fit to build a homestead

Twister
Demolishes town
Strangely named
Flat Gap
Ironic

I returned home

on Palm Sunday

to find knockout roses

behind my brick mailbox

parading their first blossoms of spring.

I found candytuft

faded to green,

safeguarding scattered sprinkles of white

for me to view one more day.

Fallen pink petals from dogwood trees

fluttered through a whimsical ballet

to entertain me on a ballroom floor

of Kentucky bluegrass.

Dogwoods, azalea, and periwinkle are different.
Something happened 
while I was away,
while I snapped photographs

of starfish captured by the sand

when evening tide

quickly rolled out to sea.


Blossoms opened

as other petals
faded and fell.

Fresh blossoms flowered

and youthful buds now greet the sun.
Did you care that I was gone

in the midst of your glory

to savor other beauties
different joys --
did you even miss me?

He remembers auburn hair

like the color
flickering before him

along Hwy 261.
Thoughts of yesterday

fill his mind 
on this journey.

Roan Mountain fades

as he steadies the wheel

beside the constant stream
of white hyphens
on the blacktop.

Flashes of her

blend into the mountains.
He dwells on her

and their daughter
who now flaunts ringlets

bright as the autumn patches

among the forest display.

While he’s driving
the rear view mirror
reflects 
his creased forehead

like his mother grew
from her many worries.

Travel grants him time 

to think of them.
“Mistakes were made.”

A cop-out rests in that thought:

he made mistakes.
He broods

when he’s in the driver’s seat.

Within stirs a persistent bane

birthed while on her mother’s knee,
endorsed with fiery warnings
loudly proclaimed from weekly pulpit.

Now her bones grate
against the cushion
while the rhythmic cadence
of rocking chair
runners on hardwood
breaks the dim silence


as past misdoings reverberate

on the back walls of her mind.

Disquietude prompts obsessions
she endeavors to prove invalid.
Her desire to flee

from reminders of falsehoods

and fake passions

nags her endlessly

like unforgivable sins

haunt a cloistered sister.
Neither pleas nor prayers

quell her remorseful ruminations.

Bad luck
decorates her branches

flashing on and off
like 
strings of lights
on a christmas tree.

Misfortune glows

as if fueled
by noonday sun

under cloudless sky.

Each day
she longs

for someone
who might notice,

turn some switch,

dim the lights,
pull a plug,
and
 diminish her pain.

No hero lurks nearby
on prancing steed.

Don’t filaments fray,

bulbs burn out

and fail to ignite

one more time?

Today she listens to her body --
complexity churning beneath her skin
traces of passion bounding in her veins
as surging waves along the seashore

She guides her hands creating something
of this moment -- leaves indelible marks
to delight a student of nature

Her *******
are soft on the outside
roaring within

Today her body
grow older
moves slower
She watches
her bones rise
slowly
to meet the day

No bouncing flesh
comes with her
to face this day's
challenges
She plays
the experience card
to stay alive
one more day