[A dream about] [my work life]
The wet morning whispers,
Pull on devoted muck boots in the mudroom,
and slip out into the air.
Love for those inside,
but also energetic motivation for the girls,
in the warm clucking coop,
and the putrid yet productive goat pin.
Love and scraps for the bunnies,
and last night's leftovers,
for the ground turning pigs.
[A vision for] [my family]
If his nerves can ever be settled,
we can have our hands devotedly clasped,
never glancing at his apprehensive "what ifs",
instead resting our backs,
against the gnarled surface of the trunk,
of the old tree in our yard.
Watching our happy children play,
my daughter, or son,
heling their sister climb up the branches,
of the gnarled but peaceful family tree.
My home is a safe,
But my garden has no fence.
Come eat from it.
Consume handfuls of lettuce.
Mouthfuls of scrambled eggs with fresh chard.
He should kneel here.
She should eat here.
No war. A garden.
No bounderies - no locks.
We should eat here.
Look down upon the angsty,
dilemma ridden mess,
we have begat ourselves.
Do not rock me gentle across your cradle.
This mess we stand in is appalling,
choking our live,
every future impossible.
the paranoid hopes of those able bodies watching this,
unfold from the shady sidelines.
Daily oil-feasting grocery store trips from those,
unnoticing of the impending drama.
A decade ago,
I craved the phone.
Electronic communication with cute boys,
the whole internet lighting up an exciting world,
into my daily moments,
What now I crave, with anticipation,
is dark silence.
No screen. No blue glow.
Just the world and a single cute boy,
shivering in the water.
static noise we can.
[A desire][for my future]
in with the season,
logical contentedness in the present,
Wishes for the future,
press so deep into my daily moments,
terrified my fertility is flying by.
Making my own,
fears of abandonment,