i. when the crafty herd comes home, cowering is neglected
the glorious reversal of a bovine nightmare
often causes the maple cupboard to squarely revert
into the green reality of a weedy lot of chewy cud
and the proper disdain of black maple furniture:
wood chips! wood chips! wood chips for all!
this was meant as a numinous carving misunderstood by others-
a constructive lesson of the woody longing formed by antique hands
that is always wasted on the long-eared snouts with milky tears:
such spilling and spurting on the sleek commodity of future bellies
is ill-regarded in the close quarters of the straw strewn barn.
the genius of the dovetail was lost somewhere in the mooing meadows,
but even lost is relative when the orbiting milk cans seductively spill.
ii. here comes the lonely trumpet now to celebrate our failure
the blue quadrangle that laughs at your excuses
bestows from the right and bastes the bend sinister
with the fecund gravy of a leaf filled gutter:
gifts wrapped in the wonder of rain are gifts just the same.
you can ignore the water filled basement, for now,
because the common way of not letting go
involves a plush blanket and a cardboard box
that discourages talking to the constant rain:
this is worrisome, but not devoid of fetal comfort.
but pity the secret wolf that stays:
wet hair will mostly stink in time-
can someone open the door, please.
iii. we evolve our own book of sorrows.
what was the glory of the four of leaves
and the shaved glee of the pluck of three
becomes a bitter leaven that still dances
in the orange oven of a rotating turn.
the elderly grimace of crinkly garlic bulbs
sometimes looks like babies laughing:
thank the gods for inner voices.