Thursday, April 26, 2012

All up in our busy-ness



Cahas in clouds fades,
warmth lingering in the wakening pastures.
Shoo, move on, 
says Mockingbird. She whose sister
lost the match
of summer last with Great White.
(This spring's nest far
from foe.)
Mocker whose long-lost
cousin
dive-bombed us as we crawled out of the old trailer
1,000 miles south
after the terrible storm.
The cousin with babes in
a spare shrub
not taken
in the waters that left a Biloxi desert.


North at almost night,
high above No-Name Creek.
A-bed,
Bluebird bids the young.


Half-Angus stir, horse does her little whinny and nod
for carrots.


Storms come here, too, 
in other forms.
In blasts of bold, biting winter winds
off Five-Mile Mountain.
Sneaking over the elbow of
Cahas.
Back home to mountains,
missing
Biloxi
missing
shrimpers
missing
trawler
missing
those with hidden-song, sun-ned countenance.


Shhh. Night at Cahas.
Sleep now as they wake.
Do the spirits of the mountains
speak over long 
winds,
through mistrals,
to shimmers on grey brining waters
just beyond
the south-bound sands?
Do they share
our names?
Can they touch, gossip, murmur,
cloud-borne?

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Back to bed, springs

Cahas Mountain is slow to green in April,
looking like my brown-haired girl
tugging the satiny ancient
quilt
up to her twinkles.

Quilts my grandmothers made,
scraps not bought
but carefully stowed
in the blanket chest,
it too made, of
walnut
by one grandfather.

Quilts cool to the touch,
warming underneath,
piled with memories
of giggles,
tears,
Grandmother’s skin,
her loudly
proudly
sung old hymns.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Horse's Knees, after reading Points of the Horse


Stifle it’s called,
above the fetlock
and pastern.
The knees of Pleasure –
by now I call her Baby and there are no corners –
go forward and back,
and farrier says,
You must brush her this way,
In case she kicks.

Words of Old English
and Old French,
music to lover of
old words.
Coronet, croup, withers, brisket, ergot, forelock, bulb.

Bulb is best descriptive – softly
lifting her heel (no kicking),
softly nuzzling bent of nose,
looking into henna eyes looking back at me.
Took about a day
to fathom each other.
Took two weeks
for Baby to joke,
biting limb off  favored cherry tree,
carting off down the deep pasture.

Pastern is another word of
Old French.
Bern is, too, where the Woods materna left, horseback to ship. 
It’s quiet on the blue land
(except for Great White, who retrieved strength of limb).
It’s Baby, hock/cannon/muzzle/crest,
who has ministered
here.

When Pinks and Reds go together - Part 1


Later in April after fooling her
with the sunburn,
Pinks flared
contrarily at the
Reds’ cheeky bombast.   Ms. High Pink in lacey tilting stacked heels,
petticoat peek:
Espadrille or not, I run – do not stop me.

Sweet strawberry on lime lettuce by columbine
snow-threatened spring the patterns of
cotton Villagers patterned
first in heathers of ‘64, then
hot shades by ’68. Little flowers
for girls learning.  No clashing, not yet.
Soon.

Sun’s up over wind as the rush of cool
from the Floyd plateau
bends buds, clips corner’s tree.
Ms. High Pink shivers
prettily,
toes touch the lip of dew,
she blinks, and with a
quick inward turn of ankle
a sashay
in a stylish spring frock, whistling merrily
she tarries/
anticipates/
defies
The Rule to wear White.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Sparrow's cupcake


Grocer’s Sunday lot,
brown sparrow pecking furiously
a-quick
tattering in all seriousness
the slick pink icing
of
Easter child’s
cupcake.

Cars wheeling by
she pecks.
Days are short
winds leave the mountains.

you never know.

We’re young, see hills
Waved off beneath running shoes.
She was young
loved and beloved,
ambitiously toughened.  Fierce against foe.
But now the
winds quicken,
breath shortens.
Yet the sugary cream in April sun drips
Into a throat needing
treasure.



In columbine




Granddad ate strawberries with you in the hospital and has gone, too.

Your favorite movie came back with new actors.
Remember how we watched it in the cool green rooms?  You would laugh that ha-ha gravelly sound through sweet lips.
Ferris Bueller, ‘tho, can’t be changed.

I couldn’t write anything for many years
and recall your story differently than others do.
They remember your funny ways, things you did.

You smelled sweet.  Hair soft and thin, spring wind.
You were born in the spring and left at the cusp of summer.
Twenty-nine Saturday.

Good rises.
You drew them to you.
Smiling ladies at hospital and school.
The dear children of kindergarten.
Little sister, big brother.
A nun, before, who read with you.

Thankful to those who made you laugh – ‘bonehead’.
Friends who included you in the egg rolls.
Friends who cradled you.

Songs.  Precious nights only we had.

In the fresh columbine,
in the star your sister named.
We speak still.