Just your average morning shoving
three goatbutts into a bright blue Kia
then heading off to work. I drive
along the first branch of a river,
past brandnew calves, sideways barns,
and the sign that reads FROST HEAVE
AHEAD which no one’s taken down
because just seeing it makes the green
of the pastures an even sweeter sight.
The silos this morning are brimming
with the years they’ve seen, the guineas
bold enough to eat the grass that runs
along the road, and the local library
has its OPEN flag highfiving the wind.
On days like this, it feels like everyone
and their mother is pushing a wellworn
wheelbarrow in the direction of joy.
(That image is a poemjoke. Do you get it?)
I am the girl with flowers in front of her face
I am the girl with flowers in front of her face.
You cannot see my face and all I care about
is keeping the flowers in place.
They are huger than I
& I snipped them for myself.
I can sense your attempts
to see through my cloud of pinks:
I sense you searching for an angle
that will unveil my veil
of petals. You can gaze forever
at the Mona Lisa, speak novels
of her brows, her simple little
almost-smile. But I am only
petals now. Like a pill bug
beneath a stone untouched
in a forest, I am occurring
wholly elsewhere. You may never know
where I harvested my flowers, let alone
what type of beauty or disdain
Buy it if you want it (I did).