EternalHunter
03-12-2005, 06:18 AM
It was a nest. The auburn hair
that started this yearning for
split rail fences and a heavy
coat that would cushion the
ground for decadent naps between
the hours of the dog's rouse.
Too many days have passed
in the hours of humanity,
too many lonely threads pulled
bare on a narrow quilt adorning
cabin bunk in a vociferous embrace,
and the predawn cough of the
coffee pot sputtering, sighing
trying to kindle motivation on the
hardness of the oaks insistent flame.
In the days of Aldo Leopold's eager
step into the soft Wisconsin dawn
to plunder the tangle of golden weeds,
grown unbounded til the fall,
for the pure reason of undefined hobby,
there was never a question that soon
it would all be gone. I had forgotten
for too long that there was a certain
time to catch the hint of deer through the trees,
i'd lost the memories of the hour to
sit by bubbling streams to meditate, when the
sun would be the warmest on slant-shoulder,
bowed head under empty boughs.
Slowy, I had forgotten the smile
under auburn curls, tumeric lips dug from
the clay between the layers of rock,
that suggested just the faintest knowledge
that I knew the horses' curiosity
from the far end of the mossy glen,
that the leather winged, buckskin tailed
hawk was watching me from his perch in
the distant dogwood...wondering, much as I,
'what does it mean?'
that started this yearning for
split rail fences and a heavy
coat that would cushion the
ground for decadent naps between
the hours of the dog's rouse.
Too many days have passed
in the hours of humanity,
too many lonely threads pulled
bare on a narrow quilt adorning
cabin bunk in a vociferous embrace,
and the predawn cough of the
coffee pot sputtering, sighing
trying to kindle motivation on the
hardness of the oaks insistent flame.
In the days of Aldo Leopold's eager
step into the soft Wisconsin dawn
to plunder the tangle of golden weeds,
grown unbounded til the fall,
for the pure reason of undefined hobby,
there was never a question that soon
it would all be gone. I had forgotten
for too long that there was a certain
time to catch the hint of deer through the trees,
i'd lost the memories of the hour to
sit by bubbling streams to meditate, when the
sun would be the warmest on slant-shoulder,
bowed head under empty boughs.
Slowy, I had forgotten the smile
under auburn curls, tumeric lips dug from
the clay between the layers of rock,
that suggested just the faintest knowledge
that I knew the horses' curiosity
from the far end of the mossy glen,
that the leather winged, buckskin tailed
hawk was watching me from his perch in
the distant dogwood...wondering, much as I,
'what does it mean?'