In My Own Backyard
In my own backyard. . . where I know the bugs will eventually drive me back inside, I write. The gardens are lush from rains and the wood ticks are plentiful, if only that was a wanted abundance, but it is not. Tall thunderhead clouds mount, blowing slow from the highlands of Ishpeming to the Marquette’s lakeshore where earlier I practiced taking shots with my new Canon s5.
I’ve promised to move forward with my life, build something (anything) before I tear down this love. How to choose a passion? Maroon iris, deep purple columbine, chamomile and poppy, not still enough to shoot in super macro with out a tripod. My off-axis-tilt as extreme as the Earth’s on this solstice, longest day of the year. Hip pain. I’m twisted.
I needed movement to sink my feet in sand, walk careful steps and so I headed out for vistas along Picnic Rocks and McCarty’s Cove. Power plant to lighthouse and everything in-between. Corona bottle chilling and sparkling in wet sand. Dirty seagulls on unnatural slabs of rock sticking up from calm blue water.
In my own backyard ( that really isn’t mine own backyard), I scrawl words in the margins of Poet and Writer’s Magazine too fearful of interruptions to fetch a notebook ‘cause this is the first time words have come natural in years. And if I don’t sit here smelling dog-shit and chamomile while no-see-ums hang under the brim of my straw hat I might just make a bad choice of passions.
Disturbing, I practice healing arts while weeding, trying to heal a man…