—–
Walking in the new winter woods,
the crunch of fragile ground beneath
my boots,
my dog’s paws will be sore tonight
for we aim far afield.
–
I think of this morning when we
argued at breakfast,
the smell of maple bacon should
stop all that, but didn’t.
–
We can’t get past the desiccated ghosts
who have taken up residence in our hearts, inviting
slights and outright blows never delivered
but still lingering in the air.
–
I took the gun loaded with birdshot
in case there was a duck down by the pond.
Were, but those be sitting ducks-
didn’t seem right, too easy a target
like this morning at breakfast when either one
of us could have let swing and landed a good one
on tender flesh and raw nerves.
–
The dog is game for hunting,
but my heart isn’t .
–
My thoughts go back to you standing there,
that old apron around your waist,
determined not to let me see tears
and my heart cracks and soon I head back with
a peace offering of holly.
–
Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2010-13
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