Some Days

Some Days

Some days are like that,

And you cry

            at the sweet smell

                        of wood smoke.

The leaves that spiral

            in two lines behind the tires

                        of the truck in front of you.

The heavy, laden

            limbs of apple trees

                        where you never noticed them before.

The blue painted school bus

            parked for eternity

                        in a field, next to a dump truck sprouting

                                    milkweed, jewel weed, any weed will do.

The chestnut colored bull,

            lying placidly, king-like

                        in all his bulk

                                    with his harem chewing their cud around him.


And you cry at everything

            because it is beautiful,

                        and you are sad.

                                                And it all screams of something


                                                                                                and losable.


And just when you've forgotten

            the blessed breaking of small beautiful things;

And just when you think

            this pregnant love

                        must dwell in darkness forever,


Your heart bursts open


At the half-wave

            of the roadman, round and suspendered,

                        as you wreck the perfect ripples of his grader track.

The girth of the old maples

            that line this road,

                        and you hope the changing of the guards never comes.

            But maybe, like an old man,

                        they want to leave this earth,

                                    seen more than enough -

                                    more than one life can carry.

The swollen flesh

            ofa field pumpkin,

                        past its term.


You weep as you stumble,

            carefully, over the pile of flower petals

                        and fairy-size bundles of pea pods stuffed with winter food storage,

And you swell with gratitude that she still believes,

            while simultaneously, your heart breaks

                        that you've asked her to.


                                                            In anything.


Still, you wish tonight the fairies

            would swoop down on you in sleep and

                        brush their delicate wings across your forehead,

                                    smooth away your worry lines and offer up

                                                                                                some faith, a little magic.


But as yet,

            they have not, and so your tears whisper down your cheek,

                        as you watch the hillsides, your hills,

                                    turn flaming orange before your wet eyes.

And again the endless weaving

            of beauty and sorrow,

                        as the sad songs of Cat Stevens

                                    tell you all the stories your father never could.

And you wonder

            how you will explain the tears

                        to the small hopeful heart in the back seat.

A smile sends the tears down new rivers

            along the creases from your nose,

                        when the fairgrounds, now ripe with manure spreading,

                                                                                                            come into view.

                        And you remember the belly aches from maple cotton candy

                                    we ate on the Ferris Wheel last week,

                                                before the leaves had started to change.


Tears flow for the sweet old drunk lady

                        with the grey bun atop her head.

            She walks down the quaint village street,

                        always tippsily pulling bottles from her purse,

                                    always chain-smoking.

                                                Everyone says she's very nice.


You cry at the black flopping ears,

            flying up above tall grass, as the dog runs,

                        gleefully throwing the dried cardboard frog

                                    into the air – the same one the cats seem to kill again each day.

You're glad your body knows some things -

            Today's a day for walking

                        slowly, quietly, noticing.

And you step along the path

            of spent blackberry bushes and brown curling ferns,

                        and you surprise a doe

                                    in equal measure

                        to her surprising you.

                                    But you both stand still -

                                                face to face -

                                                            looking into each other's brown liquid eyes,

                                                                        two, three...eight seconds

                                                                                    before you gently say             Hello,

            darling, and she bounds away.

And you wonder how so many things

            can hold such fleeting beauty

                        and such muted suffering

                                                            all at once.

And you yearn

            for something easy

                        to walk through your heart,

                                    like the way you love a barn,

                                                and hover over your day, or maybe



                                                                                                for just

                                                                                                a little while.


                                                                                                Or even, maybe longer.

Freedom from Want

Freedom from Want

Almost Lost

Almost Lost