Where I Go Homeless

One can only confuse roadside daisies with the moon - fading in mist overhead - if they want something to happen. I am dreaming of old farmhouses. The bedroom becomes a hermitage and only the dog can lead me out of it. Turtles crawl from the high grass and I kneel beside them, a little off to the left, straining for the sound of the breath they draw. This life, no other.

One creates by surrendering, as if they are the same movement. Gandhi observed that action speaks to priorities. Where the hill steepens, ferns lean forward with knowledge of what precedes New England. Yesterday I watched a fox race through a field as if chased, though nothing followed, and the silver lines of its body remaining in the air long after it was gone, or seemed to. What blue light will save me?

Fiery striations of sunrise return you to wandering. Some teachers - the best ones, maybe - don't even know they're teaching. One keeps dreaming of upstate New York, as if a gift were there waiting, as if Jesus were wrapping it personally. Wavering at yes, knee deep in no. We met with foresters to discuss building with wood from our land and left happy. Lady bugs settle on my belly and go where I go homeless.

Putting it back together over tea is a way of being married. I cry more than I used to and my smiles feel earned, if I can say that without sounding like an idiot. Mowing down bluets because there's more where those came from is  not a sign of anything. Dead horses abound. How tired I am of semantics and poems, of everything arranged just so.