John Muir and Me

On these hot June days
doing their faithful impersonation
of August, energy ripples
out a body,
then steam from the pond
dampens the soul,
removing every spark

as I sling corn meal to the ducks
and hay to the goats and horses,
fill water containers,
gather chicken eggs,
count the numbers
of all living things,
like Noah.

One goose on the water
does the work of many
in the sky, creating
a V that ripples
almost from shore
to shore,
on her way to dinner.

All the animals kick off
their lethargy
and scramble from under
pasture trees
toward tastier food.
Then the repast is over.

The dog remains on the porch.
He pants, stares at some distant point,
while every other creature
returns to its place of shade.

After stepping inside,
I sip a lemonade,
bless the distant hum
of the a/c unit,
gaze out the window
and write
of oneness with nature.

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For dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night
My dVerse poems always seem lacking to me. Oh well.

For those of you who don’t know about John Muir.

Read Write Poem Prompt 117

Uncle Mel

(1919-1985)

Thank you for telling me
a goat tied you to a tree
when you were three.

It was a rich and satisfying story.
Less humorous,
your screaming in the yard
until rescued
by your grandmother.

You told me
because you were dying
and no one else knew—
either fact,

and because
even at eighteen
I was the family repository
of all things historical.

I am sorry
to have let you down.

My apartment is now piled high
with a chaos of boxes
and papers,
endless records,
a stray sandwich or two:
a manifest disorganization
of spirit and mind.

No one gets past the door
to see the former catalog
turned waiting conflagration.

All the facts, the stories
the legends of generations
still reside in my mind
yet I’m beyond
finding one in print,

and wonder if anyone
will bother sorting
when I am gone.