The Way I Feel

Sometimes I still awake with the sound of the wind 

changing my direction like the sound of a rooster 

in the dark light before dawn.

When destiny is taking shape and forming into day

and it's hatching dreams.

I can still hear my father on the John Deere

taking out his frustrations in a long stream 

of obscenities that would curl my mother's hair

and make us giggle.

From the sun warmed lair on top of my mare's bare

back I would find wild blackberries and familiar 

hillsides of a Kentucky girls isolation.

I do not get lonely. I do not know how. 

I do not know any other way, but I miss

people, places, the smell of things.

Like the smell of early autumn hay bales

waiting in winding rows and the cool

musty smell of millet bugs in the dust

of shelled yellow corn.

Like the night scene from behind the screen

of the highest open window and how the 

breeze would caress tanned summer legs

as they lay shining moonlight white.

  

Or the lifted scent of Irish spring and cotton, 

sheets cooling on aloe sunburns as I would watch 

with infatuation the fruit bats courting with the

lamp post and dream of the man that I would marry.

I miss some people, the way they smile, the way

they smell of Sunday clean and leather, 

I miss the way they shine with love for each other.

I do not get lonely. I do not know how,

I miss the way I feel when they are near.

Reviews

[Tara]

Just beautiful and so evocative. I now want to visit Kentucky to experience some of what you describe