When dogs decide to leave

their territory on this side of the fence,

there are no affairs to get in order

no jewelry to dole out

or words from the countless people

who would have wanted to hold their paws by the bed.

It turns out,

they’ve been giving the estate away for years.

 

There is a quiet room

where the vet tech strokes their distended tummies after hours

and each breath our beloved guardians take,

brings with it the anticipation of undiscovered places

as if they were re-launching from puppyhood.

 

There is beeping

and a phone call

and a decision to make

and the hope that more money

more tests, more sleep

will give them one more day

one more week,

one more month of restful peace

in that special bed by the fireplace

surrounded by soothing voices and permissive parenting .

 

And for a long time after the decision wasn’t yours,

you miss them jumping on the bed or the couch;

you wish they would still follow you around the house

and nudge their wet noses into the palm of your hand.

 

Until that day comes

when you are brave enough to go for a jog without them,

down that old street lined with trees that was yours together;

 

only to see them there—

all of them

standing at the fence under the trees, waiting:

 

chasing their tails and biting at your heels

asking to race you to the end of the block and back,

leash-ends in their mouth, smiling;

 

a dutiful group of bouncing shadows

that will never just sometimes greet you at the fence.

 

 

 

If you sleep with the windows open you will hear:

the barn owl and his reticent wings if you’re lucky;

the cats

on top of the roof,

shrieking when the grey one

and the black one and white one come around,

hissing and clawing to defend the fortress;

the cats,

mewing hungrily at the door when the screeching is done;

the raccoons,

laughing as the scuttling mice

use the distraction to change direction;

the coyotes,

happy in the vast field to the west

before the place where the city lights flicker

fervent with the mounting weather;

the rabbits,

withdrawing their noses single file

to burrow deep;

the wind chimes,

clanging and clapping in the new wind

under the moved branches where they hang;

the steam,

rising from the ground in the morning

as the light tries to pull through the clouds;

the rain,

falling into dreams that entertain,

disappearing arrows into the ground;

the farmer,

stretching his tired, aged back early—

shaking hands with the guy from the city,

clipboard and contract in-hand…

 

 

 

 

There is a star of light

in the circle where the treetops join,

we have alternated between you riding your bike

and me pushing you.

We could probably trade places

you are so big now–

but I want to find you the perfect leaf

while I pretend you will not soon be four.

Never has a day passed like this for us;

all of the ants

and grasshoppers;

all of the caterpillars

have timed their crossing of the path just right,

and from the few branches that have already turned

the perfect, yellow, heart-shaped leaf clings to my vision from one of them

as if your name were painted in the pink veins of its buttery form.

You wave the long stem just above the jogging stroller’s parasol

turning it for the pulsing steppe to see

as if it were the emblem of our interim stay.

karenhansonpercy

(Poet’s note: I recently revisited and worked on some poems I wrote about ranch life many years ago…the themes are a little darker and the writing style a little different)…

 

there was Whiskey too

he lent me his favorite book

which I forgot to give back

and so he took what was his

when I wasn’t there

 

I pictured him quickly entering

and quickly withdrawing

not touching or looking at anything except for his book

 

The Picture of Dorian Gray

inside the front cover

ripping and guarding the curled yellow pages underneath

was a note from someone­­­

indecipherable

in pencil

a life in pencil

 

he saddled and wrangled horses

never shaved­

had one of those moustaches you could twist

 

when he looked at the mountains

he looked through them

 

used to run with some women in Detroit they say

one of them bore his little boy

who drowned a year later at her feet

 

in a lake at her feet

 

Saturday nights

he sat on the porch’s edge

and Whiskey drank his namesake down

 

until the flies would swat his hangover away

with the running horses the next day

praying for the headache to leave

 

so he can try and love himself

again

 

 karenhansonpercy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day we discovered the apple tree

we crawled on our knees to gather the ones that had dropped;

our fingers traced the softened pock marks, the partially round, the one-sided and the distorted—

each apple a life that deserved a complete and loving examination

as any candidate bound for cobbler should be.

And for the ones still clinging to the tree,

we discouraged the bees from their surface clutch

and linked our hands together so as to make a step

from which to reach the apples aloft.

Those too received their seasonal inspection

and the bucket swelled from sunken to round;

some too petite too peel, others with their spoiling divets—

not one unable to give at least,

a fingernail bite of bitter sweetness

of which we had many—

a bowl filled with tiny, sour cutouts to spread around the bottom of the pan;

the top of course, a mixture of oats and sugar, flour and butter

and one egg whose shells we extracted with surgical precision

from the awaiting, jumble of flavors.

Its marriage with the oven soon then did flood the house

in ardor

so that later,

we could eat each piece of unduplicated deliciousness

as if we had anything to do with it.

The lavender this summer
grew so high and thick
that within the purple, sprouting flesh
a tangled waltz of other grasses grew
so high and thick too.

Thank you
for the the assault of sweetness
when I do what my grandfather did
and watch the mountain shadows move
from my scything seat above the sod;

I’d like to think we float together
he and I
and that his hand rests on my back
while we look out over the rendered rows of silage
and the softened arc of water raising the tall
tall corn…