This is the song that I sing…

We crossed eyes on the hayride
made catcalls and waved cattails at the sky
and the cane was not sweet enough that night

In those days we held promise
though the honeysuckle would call us back
I would not find enough trellis to climb

And this is the song that I sing—
labcoats, black and chocolate brown
small nights in small towns

Dozing I hear the mosquitoes
let in through a slamming screen door
they are the sound of forgiveness as you go

**

Night Fishing

I went to bed with my boy scouts on
Blues and yellows, bandana around my neck
Fully dressed and waiting for midnight
Papa had it all planned and there
Would be no time for dressing

In the dark my mother woke me
They sat and drank coffee
The kitchen light betraying the time of night
Could’ve been early morning, could’ve been
A slow wake, brought on by a late phone call

Bad news requires coffee and time
But tonight was for fishing
A ritual I had grown enough for
To go out late and hunt the perch
With my father

The spotlights hung from the boat
Green water kept its secrets beneath
But Papa said that the bugs would
Bring the fish to the light

They would come to glut and
In taking them I would learn my own place
That a boy must be like his father
For at least a little while

**

Burnt Fields

burnt fields are not simply black—
it is not the only color they
could be—

there survive small shoots from the quick burn
green and wet, those lucky blades
in a sliver of shade, their dew
lubricious protection
boiling away

there are tall warriors, now brown
and orange and umber,
who lived on when the wind
changed and the heat
subsided

when the new growth comes
they will tower, these unfulfilled phoenixes
giving their cool shade to others
the warmth of the sun
a reminder