a month to find the reason
to call this month pumpkins, pies, cooler.
and what howls in the night.
watch, wait and think - an approaching end to another year.
two hands, ten fingers.
how the wind blows, Sugar.
poetry - jack sender - all of my life
a month to find the reason
to call this month pumpkins, pies, cooler.
and what howls in the night.
watch, wait and think - an approaching end to another year.
two hands, ten fingers.
how the wind blows, Sugar.
Amanda raises goats.
Peccorino she'll tell you is the cheese.
back home her family helps goat watch.
she returns every year to home near Naples.
pistachio is put in. i have no idea how that works.
good cheese, good nuts,
good weather for a family home
good, good, good.
in these parts summer has spent itself;
although this week will
make another temperature run.
don't get excited.
when you look back you'll see
summer was close to swell, but
this year seemed to run by quickly
and lacked the best of moments.
you know, sometime it goes like that.
i'm happy for what we had.
you do the same.
oh, summer will return next year
and knock us off our feet.
drove down south some, we did.
decent day of sun, weather and all.
saw no wagons this day.
empty morning on the back-ways.
no rabbits out
not a one
even here at home they hid.
that's what we limitly saw, and what we did.
some diet. i am not eating meat
most of the time. don't think about it.
once in a while at a rice place i have
some meat in a ground up sauce.
i wanted to call it our rice place.
we always go to the same one.
there aren't many.
i thought i got turkey, but she said
i had pork. all the same to me,
whether i have it or not.
food is what i order.
the spicy i like.
not crazy spicy ... tasty.
flavor me, Babe
i'm cooperative.
gathered close, light woods around
deerskin tan and markings white abound
in quiet movement, together, shuffling
without sound. only the ambience of evening.
moonless sky. strong bodies, family,
in silence, light breathes, watching amid darkness.
numbers, they speak of time, we know hours
as they pass in dampness. they call numbers in hours.
we see paths, streams, short rivers we know.
living dreams. our numbers live with us.
wood sticks lightly kicked against leaves.
our group of deer move in near silence.
breathe in light puffs. aware around us.