Wild Poems

Sometimes all I can think to do is go outside. When people or politics press too close. When this country glaringly misaligns with what I hold dear. When time feels slippery in its passing. Sometimes all I can think to do is go outside.

There is no way there are golden retrievers in the Amazon. I watch my wooly golden girl on humid days as she walks slowly, heavily, even her whiskers droop. She gives me a mournful look as we get back to the house clearly asking if we can move further north than our Minnesota home.

Fireworks. People love em or hate em. I would fall into the latter category. Mostly for my dogs who suffer through what has become two weeks of inexplicable (to them) and random explosions that go on into the early hours of the morning.

Hard rain. The kind that pounds the ground and splashes up caking low leaves in mud spattering dirt into mosaic designs on higher foliage. Five minutes later... Bright sun. Clear delicious air, the kind that only comes after rain. Wind, even blue sky amidst the dazzling clouds.

This is a joyful poem.   I was going to write about poppies. About the way they shoot skyward then burst into color so rich that you feel it as well as see it.   It was to be a simple poem about being in the moment. The poppies a lovely example of something glorious and fleeting, as their paper thin petals last but a few days.

The birds start before dawn when there is just a hint of light in the dark sky. I like to think they are greeting the day although there is a lot else going on to be sure. From territory disputes to nest building laying, incubating, or hatching calling to one another or, I’m just certain, singing because it’s morning.