Growl for the Moon

She calls. Is a bobcat on fire.  Wants my hunger and my scissors.

Growls low because she needs to know I’m hers—that the moon’s always here. 

At night she fears we’ll drift apart, so she hides the knife, ties me close.

The Sowing, The Reaping

There’s something about spring that urges me to

forget all the grudges we’ve swept under our marital

blanket of snow.  You’d say we shouldn’t bury the seeds—

weeds grow where they’re least looked for; like Jason

the farmer, we’ll only reap what we sow.  But unbounded from

the four walls of home, the threat of fully-armed anger has

less importance to me than the horses nickering in the paddocks. 

The stones wreathing the fields like dinner rolls.

It’s a small thing, the newly-turned earth, yet somehow, still

living, we’re reborn from it: The wheat that pushes through

itself to become itself again.  Maybe we should send our dirt on

the wind.  Take it out with the rugs, beat it into the haze that

rises above the tractor and watch it float away over the hill.