Beaver Chew

Hot are the embers to my open eyes

Always as I await

grounded turkey’s looking for flight

fist-ed fiddle-heads and ferns, as they unleash their plight.

I await

methodical cow

browsing turtles.

I await for life to cross Shingle Camp Road.

Even though, infinitely, critical of how I am smitten…

I anticipate.

I listen.

Attempts are plain…

the beaver’s chew

the No-See- Um’s bleak journey for flowers…old and new.

I abide the noisy splendor of live free or die.

All creatures, great and small, renegades when movement collides.

No See Um’s? A minute bloodsucking insect, especially a biting midge.

Your Touch has grown Cold

 

 

 

 

Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.

The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.

A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.

Darling, I know something about love.

It isn’t dressed in hazard red.

It isn’t laced in road closed puns.

Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.

There is a dusting on the road…

a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.

Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.

But than again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.

your touch 1