A Misguided Attempt to Love

Between raindrops, a cricket. Decorative wells in front yards, half-hearted daffodils like penitents around it. Dust in the eye sockets of the blind horse as if to remind those with eyes they won't always. Honeysuckle blossoms.

Unbuckled belt buckles. Dreams slip easily past the mesh nets of memory, leaving me with a sense of having traveled then taken some drug that makes you forget you traveled. What you do with me will be a secret unless the God of childhood is real. Fifty years ago one didn't see cardinals in these parts, a fact I remain astounded by.

Black bear sightings and other charms. The porch roof leaks, another thing we can't afford to fix. Mercy Buckets. The story and the story there's a story and, somehow, this sentence. 

Dancing with Jon in Rhode Island to that old Van Halen song Jump. Coffee is the thing that saves us. I wake late and the horse chores are finished and it's hard to write but easy to say a rosary. Sunlight passing through prisms and other solvable mysteries I leave unsolved in a misguided attempt to love the Lord. 

So it hurts, so what? She murmurs in the dark, fingers on my chin to turn me to her, turn me to kisses. It's not Ray Bradbury stories all the way down! Wondering do turtles pray, have gods, that kind of thing.