My little huntress. You pull me along like a ship’s sail billowing, dragging my reluctant stagnant heart toward joy for your thoughts and your ways are simple, guileless and true.
You take in at this very moment, every rustling leaf, flying bird, small scurrying thing. The minutest detail of being, the soft scent language of the breeze, and those savory ghosts left behind in the night by some prowling thing that vanished into the undergrowth. You revel in its fragrance, scrutinize and consider.
And what surprise might come around the bend? You are neither nationalist nor patriot, nor are you swayed by ancient texts or great ambitions. You do not see the differences in features or colors or language. Everyone is your friend, and I am drawn along in your wake, offering up explanations.
And should you come to a crossroads, you stall with a backward glance inquiring, “Are you coming? Will you be right along? I cannot lose sight of you.”
My little beggar. At the end of the day you wait and wait casting about sad eyes until the time is right. You love everyone but you worship at my feet. You lean into me and caress my cheek, you lean into me and you sleep. And all I can hope is that, though I will not have you for all my days, that we will have us for all of yours.
(From Chapter 31 Grove of the Patriarchs)
Heralds of what’s to come
Crawl under my skin
Like an army on the move.
A battalion of rumor
A rear guard of whispers.
I grasp, finally, the incursion,
The stone cold double deal.
Recently I finished writing my first fiction novel, and I think I will publish here bits and pieces of it. Many of the chapters begin with a scrap of poetry to set the tone. This is the heading for Chapter 4 of Grove of the Patriarchs.
Busy bobbing birds
Flitting and feathering
Needing naught but nests and nuts
Seeds and scavengings
Courting and calling
Hailing high aloft the hedges
Far unfettered flight
Every once in a while our steady Pacific Northwest rains and mists turn into storms as they did last night. It was near dark and the winds were whistling down our chimney and I thought, “Time for a walk”. So I bundled up and grabbed my reluctant husband and headed for the hill for a bit of exercise. The hill is the road stretching up behind our house. It’s long and it’s steep and from up there the hills beyond stretch on and on to the horizon. Last night the Douglas Firs, straight and fearfully tall swayed drunkenly in the high winds. The rain coming in sideways blasted my face and when we reached the top I threw off my hood and thought of Whitman:
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. – See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15755#sthash.or3dDIsf.dpuf
It was dreadfully exciting. There was a moment that I looked up into the trees and envisioned a widow maker careening down on us, and that maybe Josh and I shouldn’t walk so close together, you know, so our children don’t become orphans. So I ran down the hill like a reckless child, just this side of maintaining control. I love free entertainment. Free as the air we breath and my two feet beneath me.