Kentucky Sunday

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.

Prose, Poetry and Ponderings

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

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