The Hunt (National Poetry Month Day 18)

The lively woods are lonesome
with the creaking of the trees
as swiftly sifting snowfall
gathers ‘round my bundled knees.

I’m crouching by a maple
sanded silver by the snows,
My hands and eyes ache numbly
as the wind slips through my clothes.
The chipmunks crash and clatter
with a clamor twice their size,
but this is mere distraction
and they do not draw my eyes.

The briars set to riot
now I’m watchful for a kill,
and through the nested nettles
swishing tails and antlers mill-
They herd at half a dozen
and their breath beats at the air
And though it is an easy shot
I leave them grazing there.

Farm Hands (4/9/18)

My hands scratch clay-rich dirt
As did my father’s, and his, and his;
With roughshod nails on leather fingers,
Long but without slenderness
Made solid by the task.

Those hands hefted these same loads,
Bore the seeds of past promise,
(These planted shells have always grown)
Pushed the same heavy plows and
Tamed the land with selfsame toil;
But on the earth lusts for our labor,
With gruesome gulps she
Grows these fields.

I put aside these cloying thoughts
And scratch another seed in.

The Killdeer (National Poetry Month Day 8)

Mild meadows hold her clutch;
small beak searching out the brush
as grass bends low by crafty touch.

She spies the eyes burning bright;
but valiant wings dare no flight
she flees the nest, chirping fright.

Her stilted legs lack for grace
but they bear her far apace;
far behind, snouts seek the trace.

Cornered she turns on her foes
teeth agleam in pearly rows;
and back through the skies she goes