The screen door squeaks and slams, as I take the two steps down into the afternoon sun. The hot Texas wind burns my cheeks, lifts and tangles my hair then swirls off to tease the creaking windmill and clean-sweep the path to the barn. Off to the right Juanita hefts a child on her hip and hangs clothes that are already dry before they finish their first snap in the wind. I wave and turn into the old barn which smells of cow dung, musty dry hay, and tractor oil. Here is where I have always found Granddad. I look for him in the empty stalls, mud-covered tools, dried leather straps. Memories will have to do.
light motes dance
through the door
sunshine dragged inside
roots are Western but she has lived in the South for 50 years, which helps shape her writing. Her poetry reflects her life-long interest in the large and small miracles of the world, from dust-bunnies to star-dust, from mouse holes to black holes. She finds pleasure in the creative challenge of translating those miracles into poetry.
