P enty

Poetry 14 River singing, slicing down to the great lake, pour, pour out forever. Chill our feet. Tumble down young eternity. We filled ourselves on the rainbow flesh of native waters, offer up, yielding from the smokehouse to hungry fingers. We came for play, for health, for rest, and found all and plenty.

The world from the morning road is stumbling along in a foggy blanket, content to let leftover Christmas lights glimmer their tiny occasional colors.

Neat little farmhouses and ugly trailers, realms of grand fertile puddle-muddles, autumn-rusted, patience-straining, train cars bumble their way through the fluttering pulse of soft gray towns, cold, bare branches, fallow yellow hills,

reminiscing triple crown champions and blueberry summers waiting until the citrus touch of dawn explodes gently from somewhere deep behind the pine fields. Poetry 15

Poetry 16

On the asphalt, something lifeless lay without a yearning for yarn.

Up above it, something living looked, a face of stone, unmoving cairn.

In the balance of towering mass, the red light shone. No stirring,

no sound was made in all the earth except an engine purring.