Kentucky Sunday

a wild bouquet of 3-year-olds
fling themselves into water jets
and sit down
before dissolving into
a crowd of guardians and water play
oh the racket!
of 5-year-old boys
who are deliriously
being doused by buckets of water
almost as gleeful
as their dad
who has a couple of them
over his shoulder
sopping wet
and squealing
it is into this calescent
Kentucky Sunday
the kind that could stifle
and divert every kind intent
that we call for
bloody marys
maybe 2
no celery stalk
but olives
which shipwreck and sink
to the bottom
of the glass
bloody mary 2
we sit in this summer field
you tell truth
which spills out
like the sweat on your brow
uncaged stories
as redolent and wounding as
I’ve heard
and this heartsong
only a patch in the acres of
your tender and
interrupted pilgrimage
you cry
for the love of a friend
and rehearse with me
the binding and releasing of
wonder and fear
wonder and fear
 the tugging of discontent
and the unexpected gardens
where loneliness leads
you are art
such honesty
I did not earn
but you gave
i neglected to thank you
birdcage man
we don’t know
what weighs down the pockets
of those we hold in our hearts
or only in 
rocks or nails
or a day old piece of leftover fish
wrapped in a napkin 
who knows?
the scripts written
for and by you
are with you
and being harvested
even now
like those 
sprouting children
too soon the day collapsed
into home grown carrots
organic broccoli
and cheese
and the friction
of insect legs that sing up the night
much too soon 
as you left
i thought
“maybe this is what holy is:
being trusted enough
to hold the darkness and light
of another
in your heart
and to love it all”
This entry was posted in Poetry, Reflections and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Kentucky Sunday

  1. Laura says:

    Really beautiful. Thanks for sharing it. Hope you are well.

  2. shannonbeck2 says:

    Reblogged this on Prose, Poetry and Ponderings and commented:

    Feeling this poem today for some reason, so thought I would repost. It is NOT summer. There are 10 inches of snow. But the longing in me to be known and honored are sinking in my belly. So here. This.

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