It seems this place should have a dog
with wet and muddy paws.
Past the sheds by the mailbox,
By the narrow two track road,
With the grass growing up,
Things are undisturbed.
The house sits on the hill above the barn.
Red, as barns are meant to be.
I sit in a crumbling chair facing north
to the barn and the red reflection.
There are two birds on the electric pole
too far to see, but one looks to be a flicker by
his shape and voice. There is an apple tree.
The fields are growing spring
The balsam root raises her face
to the sun on the south bank
of the north field toward the sun.
Nearby, rolls of wire, old plows
combines, and tractors rust in the field.
I smell a stale smell.
The place has been repressed
by being shut up too much -
We ought to open up
its windows, its future.
We're doing this together - you, the future and I.
I feel at home here with you -
swimming toward the sky,
your ibis to my star.
We're just ordinary people
wanting ordinary things -
cats, coffee, red wine, orange juice
love, good food
a still and silent day.
Next weekend is Easter.
We will celebrate the resurrection of Christ,
one more year of our lives survived.
I want to walk down the Halverson Canyon
where the trees are dressed in their orange lichen.
I want to see towhee
junco, wild turkey
I am not from here. You speak
of this canyon as if it is the only one -
the defining canyon;
your canyon to your river
I feel the vibration of the tractor in the west field
I'd like to have a table for drawing at this place
under this tree
under this one
I want the soft tip of a tongue near an ear,
gentle grazing of hands, gentle kisses.
I call you but you don't answer.
I want the assurance that you are alive.
I want to live in this house
with its rambling maze of rooms
cedar chests and chairs,
its memories floating close to the ceiling.
No one has touched it for years.
It is just as it was when they left for town.
Cloud brings me your whispers
your night time wishes
I like it when the biggest noises
are flies. I want the silence of a farmer's wife.