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.
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 happy 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 conversation 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 we sit in this summer field while 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…
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