the ant

the ant is busy
on the hill of
spilled sugar and
I am busy at my keyboard
trying to collect
my thoughts

Spring Breeze

Blue yellow and white merge
the sky rises above us
billowing
rattling last years oak leaves
mixing them with
the smell of spring
and promise

I take your hand and
we move
forward

Sea Change

Hearts rise and fall

A tidal presence pumping life

Through our veins

Love comes on a wave

An unexpected tsunami leaving

Normalcy adrift amongst the wreckage

Of plans and responsibilities

Hairy Towes

Hairy Towes lived in a small house with his large family. They were tenant farmers and raised crops, beans to be specific, enough to feed the entire village.

Hairy was the third of eleven brothers. His real name was Three, but everyone called him Hairy. You can probably guess why. He was, well hairy.

He had been born with a mane of wild copper colored hair. His mother could not bring herself to cut it, so it grew, and grew and grew. As a wee lad he learned how to braid. It not only kept the hair out of his face, but he found he could tuck the braid into his shirt and out of his brothers’ reach.  You see, they liked to have a little fun when they were done with chores, and they’d use Hairy’s braid as a make shift jump rope. The neighbor girls, come to fetch the beans, would often play along. The tugging gave him a bit of a headache, but the real indignity occurred when these little misses would tie ribbons to his locks. It was really just too much.

Hairy worked hard with his family on the farm, but he was restless and often roamed the woods. There was something about the tall trees reaching for the clouds, the soft undergrowth, and the downy moss always pointing him in the right direction. He felt like he could breathe better and think more clearly. It’s where he went to dream of his future, where his someday self lived with a lovely wife and several children of their own. They would harvest trees to provide heat to the farmers and villagers, but for every tree they took they would plan two more so that the forest would not suffer.

One afternoon Hairy took his axe and went to the woods to gather some firewood. He whistled as he walked along the path, enjoying the fresh air and the bird songs. The day was warm and he was thirsty so he headed for the spring-fed pond for a sip of clear, cold water. As he neared, he heard frantic splashing. He sprinted the rest of the way and saw a figure struggling to stay above water.

“Help,” the figure sputtered.

Hairy didn’t know how to swim, and wondered what to do. Should he run back for help? There was no time. Should he fell one of the trees circling the pond so that he could walk out on it and grab the poor, floundering soul? No, the tree might land on them and push them under.

Hairy ripped off his shoes and socks and waded into the water up to his knees. He pulled his braid from under his shirt, coil, after coil, after coil, and hurled it into the center of the pond.

“Grab on,” he shouted.

As soon as the endangered individual grabbed his hair rope he turned and ran back up the path, towing his resue-e to the shore.

“I’m safe,” coughed his beneficiary.

Hairy pivoted and headed once more to the water’s edge. There, slumped in a heap, dripping and shivering with relief, sat a beautiful girl about his age.

“You saved me,” she said softly. “I owe you my life.”

In an instant he saw their future and he was content.

“No,” he said. “It is you who have saved my life, and I give it to you.”

slowly migrating

History is visible on

Your face

Etched in tiny, secret cursive

Hints of who you were mingle with

Who you are

The young man churning like

A summer storm

Slick and handsome

Confident beyond reason

Now simply beyond reason

Fearsome and fearful

As the world changes moment

By moment

Armpit to kneecap

Hands to feet

Cornered

Slowing migrating to a

Lesser-known legacy.

 

 

 

tiny, secret cursive

Becky stood abruptly, profile stretched in the late afternoon shadow, comically long with a humped belly. Her sky blue eyes widened in surprise, her mouth forming a perfect o in tandem with her thoughts. Not yet. Please God, not yet.

Her belly was hard as an oak beneath her hand and wetness spread down her legs mingling with the cream spilling from the overturned churn.

She’d had twinges most of the afternoon but had figured it was just because she was nervous. Jack was gone hunting and wouldn’t be back until morning. She didn’t like being alone so far from other people.

Her legs buckled as the next contraction possessed her. As soon as it passed she hobbled to the porch and lay down. This is it. There will be no waiting.

It wasn’t long before her baby slipped from her, slick and slimy, wrapped in a caul. Becky tore it open with her teeth and massaged the baby’s chest until he began to breath and the blue left his face. She counted his toes and his fingers, stroked his dark head, kissed his nose.  He nursed, his tiny fist burrowing into her armpit.

They fell asleep together, serenaded by crickets and whippoorwills, their futures joined, etched in tiny, secret cursive across the darkening sky.

The Hero's Feet

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, lived a boy named Ten Towes. Ten was the tenth of eleventh brothers, and as you may have guessed, his parents did not possess much imagination, though they did love their children and each other. They lived together in a small home on a bean farm they tended for Mr. Giant.  

It was a busy life for Ten, planting the beans with his brothers, watching the sky for rain, daydreaming, weeding and harvesting. And he was happy. That is, until an odd growth spurt in his thirteenth year. He went to bed one night a normally proportioned boy, but woke to find his feet had grown four sizes. His brothers found this quite amusing and teased him mercilessly.

“Hey, here comes big foot,” they would yell. Or, “Ten will never be able to step close enough to kiss a girl. His feet will always be in the way.”

Ten would just smile and continue his work, but inside he was hurt, just a little.

By his sixteenth birthday, Ten was still five foot seven inches tall, with a shoe size of 20. In short, his feet were huge. But there were bigger problems afoot. There had been no rain since April, and now, in the heat of the summer, the sky still showed no sign of rainclouds and the beans were struggling. No beans meant Mr. Giant would kick them off the land and worse, the people in the village would go hungry.

Ten struggled to think of something he could do to help. He thought and thought and thought. Finally, he came up with an idea. (For while his parents may have been devoid of imagination, Ten was gifted with a flair for whimsy.) He decided to do a rain dance, and that’s exactly what he did.

During the night, while his parents, One through Nine and Eleven slept in their cozy little beds, Ten went out to the bean field. He’d never danced before. Fear of stepping on his partner’s toes had held him back. But he would not be put off.

He listened to the wind rattling the dry and nearly leafless branches of the trees bordering the field until he caught a rhythm. First he tapped his big toes. Then he wiggled his bottom. Then his knees got in the game and he started to move around the field. He went around once, then twice. The breeze grew stronger. He danced up and down the rows, more animated with each step. Soon his arms were waving and a cloud sashayed across the moon. He continued to dance, perspiring and waving, weaving and bobbing. The starlight was gone but slashes of white lit the sky. Still he danced dances that he didn’t even know how to dance, up and down and around, his enormous feet kicking up dust and making ruts around the parched little plants. And then it happened. The stubborn sky let loose a few drops of rain, warm and welcome on Ten’s sweaty face. But he didn’t stop until the rain came down in sheets and began to fill the ruts his dancing had made throughout the field.

When he finally stopped moving and stood still in gratitude, he realized his family was there at the edge of the plot, watching him and smiling. Their faces were wet with more than rain. They hugged him and thanked him, and would forever tell the story of their hero’s feet, and how he saved them all.