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mangled, dry, a crisp crunch underfoot

the last season’s mowing more than a month past

all that remains until the cover of not-yet-come snowfall

is to pick up after puppy, his leavings throughout the yard

fairway #4 spreads out beyond the wrought-iron fence

the trees and the pond, trending of late with Canada geese

and a different manner of leavings…

all of it this morning blanketed in a mist of hardened nightfall

beautiful in its uniformity, somber under the weight

of what lies before us

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the mish-mash keeps her awake for hours / unseemly dreams, misspent allocations / they haunt her slumber, deride her restfulness // hawk-spirits gliding over harvest wheat / playful souls entwined in a dance of love / yet, she yearns to return to more concrete memories / her strength upholds her // trust sustains her desire / she believes she will thrive, despite the odds / despite all those who seek to devour the only light / she’s ever known

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i want to tell you a secret

she said, her auburn highlights

burning in the breeze

i know the way of men.

ok, i thought. and what of that?

she popped a bubble

and ran away,

the gauze of her smile

forever now etched on my mind.

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if i could be any color

i’d choose a shade from either end

of the day’s curtain.

those wake-up hues of dawn

the soothing, sometimes fiery

purples, reds, and golds @ dusk.

i’d be infused with the promise

of a new day & the contentment

of twenty-four hours well-lived.

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Pensive.

Like steel. Or foam rollers.

Stripped of any

future

or stability

or charismatic wanderings.

Yes. Her life was in a pickle.

She just had to dill deal with it.