awake
     fog slithers through flats
     mocks barren trees
     obscuring definitions

     sun 
     breaks the plain
     pink-hues the hoary ghost
     dissipates dubious reality

     from the barn
     rooster crows call my name
     haranguing sloth
     demanding service

     hands toil at tasks,
     emotional wounds
     inflicted upon new worlds
     linger a lifetime
     like presents from distant relations
     tucked away in the hall closet

     lying flat of my back
     smelling the sweet promise 
     of lush, green grass
     serenity floats 
     white puffs of lassitude
     across pure blue

     rain drops
     sudden
     pounding
     shard upon my face
     lips licking the sweet 
     wine of universal sorrow
     shamed by childhood glee

     time passes minutes
     of quick reflections
     too swift for aging palms
     to grasp

     tarzan swings through air
     sultry with the sweat 
     of jungle-heaving,
     in the tree house
     lady jane fluffs the down
     in prim anticipation
     loins wet with yearnings
     belying her station

     smiles seize the lips
     of innocent wonder
     exploding star bursts
     novas
     supernovas
     and a pale moon riding 
     a low sky
     lingering to glow
     a passing scene

     muse-visions
     longing for habitation
     configure 
     words sail through space
     clinging to peaks and valleys
     conceiving the doe
     the bear 
     and big birds flying

     searching for dreams
     that pass through night
     and gather splendor
     for a new dawn
     sun 
     bands the mountain tops
     with golden veins
     and blazes blood
     upon a vast horizon

     darkness 
     lullabies

Before  gray dawn
silhouetted the scene
he slouched along the red earth path
worn between ragweed walls,
milk pail in hand
kerosene lantern swinging ghostly shadows.
I stumbled behind
yawning morning air
eyes blurring night vision.

He sat on a bucket
turned upside down
I sat on one too,
elbows on knees,
palms supporting my nodding head,
and when the rhythmic splash
of milk striking milk
slowed
he spoke his first morning words,
“Open up.”
I did
and caught the stream of warm liquid
aimed my way.

He left,
bucket in hand
milk foam flecked with
black barn-waste,
dark lantern swinging
it’s squeaky salutations
to a new day.

And I followed.

      We had all kinds of critter 
      on the farm,
      but the chickens were Ma Nan’s.
      She cared for them.
      Grand Pa tended all the others.
      Man Nan used t’ say,
      Son while yore out there
      a ridin yore chariot
      listen for a hen t’ cackle.
      See where she’s a nestin.
      We need some eggs.
      So I’d hop on the seat of
      the old rusty cultivator,
      crack my whip,
      and my team would spread their wings.
      We’d head for the
      Apache or Cheyenne,
      Arapaho or Sioux,
      for a pow wow.
      And when a hen would
      cackle,
      I’d excuse myself 
      no matter if I was with
      Geronimo or Sittin Bull,
      and I’d high tail it to the sound
      and watch for a hen
      to come out of the rag weed.
      I always found the nest
      and I’d gather the eggs,
      put em in the belly of
      my long john top
      and fetch ‘em t’ Ma Nan like they was 
      pure Apache gold.

      She knew the name
      of every fowl in ‘er flock;
      geese, guineas, chickens.
      When she scattered scratch
      every evening, 
      she knew if one was missin
      and if it was broody
      or some varmint had got it.

      Once every couple a months,
      she spread a special mornin feed
      to snatch a rooster for 
      fried chicken Sunday.
      She only killed the cocks.
      Wrung their necks she did,
      haranguing the whole time
      they flopped on the ground,
      “Yeah, I caught ya didn’t I. Uh uh.
      You know better than that. Crazy ol' fool.
      Too many cocks in one hen house.
      And just how long did ya
      think you were gonna 
      get away with it?”

      Then, 
      her words were always a 
      puzzlement.
      Now, 
      I wonder how many times,
      over the years,
      she wrung the old man’s neck
      for some
      youthful indiscretion.