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Collected Poetry

    (rd king dot net)
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Beating Heart, Dancing Feet  

  August 


I used to sit in the arbor
with Grandpa Dan, while

Grandpa made his morning noises
and the bees took to the catnip

in the house shade.  Dad and Ken
would leave the kitchen for work

and Ken would have his window down
and the car would break into a shine.

Everything was so neat
and clearly empowered with abundance

that I would be held in place
purely by the notion

until Aunt Sarah brought out breakfast
and Mom set a hose out in the melons.



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