and this be the new year
a day of melting, smelting
a day of coyote, eagle
a day of false divisions
and daring to dream nonetheless
this is a day for mind opening
heart bonding
gut un-wrenching
this is the day of all days
as are all days
when the forked tongue heals
and the soul laps upon the shores of eternity

i was struck yesterday by this absolute notion
smacked me so hard, i got vertigo
and i wonder if i should share something
so frightening and wonderful
and i wonder how i will squeeze it all through words
through some short, negotiable passage
for minds to sift for a treasure it can't even imagine
much less understand

for the truth is this
i am bounded by the unknown like a girdle
and there is no getting out
it is everywhere i look
everywhere my mind can't penetrate
and must rely on its generous imagination
to fill in the blanks
to fill my head with chatter
meaningless chatter, as the mind
professing to understand so convincingly
is really ass-bare behind the curtain
sporting the emperor's new clothes

while dorothy dreams in the poppies
lions and tigers and bears - oh my!
red shoes at the ready
home
just a click away....

but truly, the mystery is a blanket
that can't be shed
i can't even know the eye that looks
much less the eye that sees....

crows gather just beyond the dawn
rakish and jostling along the tree-line
mostly shagbark and indian cigar
angling over that sickly creek
banks caved in from the plowed fields
pressed in so close
those thundering, steel-jawed machines
crushing the soil
and tossing it to the wind

year by year
this wind carves my face
and the heavy roar of progress
gnarls my flesh
and grinds my bones
into dirt
bringing me closer to the land

right now, though
the wind is slight
tinkling the frozen rushes like crystal chimes
indigo against the sky, awaiting
that first flush of fire

deer, nesting in the pockets
hollowed out in the reeds
test the pearly crust with slick hooves
pawing and blowing steam
hair on end from the cold
and frost burling their whiskers

the big doe, she watches the crows
pricked ears fanning for the morning news
the others huddle close for warmth
nuzzling, shouldering awake
some, with swollen bellies
yet dreaming

no smoke curls from the cabin down on Hickory
since old man Jones died
his dog died soon after
he always had coffee on, these misty mornings
gritty from using no basket
throwing the grounds on to settle
as conversation filled the space
between the kettle and the fire…

the road is colder now
and the crows clatter off to the duck pond
lord knows why
winters, they stick pretty close to routine
running the perimeter
and heralding all that moves
taking their job pretty darn seriously
for all their clownish ways
and pirate souls…

kind of like people
old man jones used to say