Horses are Always Waiting

In a dream I wrote twenty sentences a day. A white truck going slowly up Main Street, hay in the back, a cheerful reaper to take us all home. But who is counting.

Folks selling eggs at the end of their driveway misunderstand what about homesteading? She writes back almost instantly, overwhelming me, so many details about the weather. The man who is partial to libraries, always wants to meet there, go from there on long walks with coffee, et cetera.

By the river, maple trees acquire the red hue of early Spring, precedent to the soft green of unfurling buds, and one goes slower, knowing there are only so many ways to be grateful in this world. Kissing like playing ukulele takes practice. Baby robins in hand, this tragedy insisting on itself, over and over and over.

Let us be neighbors, lovers, layabouts. Daffodils at the very moment when I was ready to give up. It is context all the way down. 

Between stars, darknesses. We clean the outdoor fire pit, sit outside with it past dark, sipping cold tea, lit up and smoky, talking about how certain weddings can overthrow whole marriages. You don't sleep well anymore and I am the man who knows why.

The horses are always waiting for me in the morning, heads tilted just so. There is nothing else to learn? Days pass between poems and one struggles to remember the eremetical impulse.

Seductive Lucifer, persuasive Lucifer. You are getting worked up about tri-syllabic words again, have you considered visiting Rhode Island?