stretching like the creek

across miles

limbs achy and tired

.

a story pushing

against wind

in smallish circles

.

morning’s lonesome bird

sings “let go”

to a rolling mist

.

to land somewhere soft

listen to a slowing heart

wherever home is

Buffeted above the middle ring

like a trapeze artist,

she waits for his strong arms

to take her to a fantasy world,

but he’s pumping his arms

drinking coffee at a counter

thinking about the miracle of bacon.

Their plans coincide in greasy abandon.

the width around where my reality ends

is shaped like a birch tree

for better or worse;

the lumbering trunk

is my base

the wispy scraggly branches

are my reach

the roots- quiet, dark, and deep

are my only thoughts of place

.

the rest is sun and breezes

resting on the skin of my children

and the bones of my ancestors

the night squiggled

before my car lights

.

I gripped the wheel

loosely but with prayer

.

the same bit of road

has run the gamut of emotions

.

there was no redemption

among late spring roadkill

.

I thought I was almost there

but I don’t know where I’m going

I can tell by the slope of your shell

our dance would last

beyond moon and crickets.