I will knot 
the strings of my garment 
in old age 
I will tie down the moon 
and hold her promises

suddenly August
once again naked ladies
dance in grandma's yard

morning's first heat
black cows rise
through the tall grass

out of sight
a chickadee calls
tirelessly
I answer as I can
with lost words and
found images.

high on the hill
my father calls
for me and I
travel the best way
I can with gratitude
and memory.

from shadow
my mother calls
and I don't recognize her
she never waits for
an answer and
I am always late.

all these calls
can't be met with silence
although sometimes I try
failing more times than
I succeed while the
chickadee calls tirelessly.

the hills first appear
just west of Chillicothe
what you might have meant

Sunday afternoon
the wine we opened Friday
a little tart