Time to turn


the rocking cradle

and the hand, and new beginnings, and hope —
all these i want to turn to now, before it’s too late,
instead of treading the murky rivers of anger and evil.
(re)turn to spring, rebirth, the greening grass …

promise, renewal, nature’s cyclical churning
of the eager earth. i’ll follow whitman over eliot,
dive into silky blades of grass, beautiful hair
of the resurrected dead, and pretend i’m truly

naked, wide open to the universe’s loving
energy, atoms to atoms. allow the warming breeze
to lick me clean. it might be foolish, yes,
you might call it “crazy,” but let’s face it:

the child’s mind is a treasure. it uncovers wonder
in every emerging leaf and petal,
it’s elastic, curious, it loves unconditionally,
and it explodes into blossom with every new

connection, like april’s luscious tulip trees,
glazed and shining with rain, holding their limbs
up and out to capture god’s healing breath.

Day 7

Challenge: Try 10 x 20 (10 syllable lines, 20 of them)


The dog is fifteen, deaf and somewhat blind. 
She huffs and pants, has to heave herself up 
with groans, skitters on our slick floors, slips cat-
astrophically with stick legs that don’t 

bend under dinosaur bulk. Bulbous growths
sprout through dulling fur -- she nibbles them 
raw with yellow teeth. One mile an hour is 
her new top speed. No matter what she eats, 
she leaks toxic gas. It hangs over her 

sprawl in a corrupt halo. I have to 
wonder if she’s still here or if she’s un-
leashed, floating lost dog days, running in her doze 
through dewy fields, a shiny black arrow 
of joy, flushing birds, sun glinting from sleek 

sides. No matter. Wherever she is, she 
still makes her way back, lit with a love that 
breaks through cloudy eyes, shivers, rubs itself
into us, snorting and wild, pure timeless
ecstasy, soul, our unearned redemption.