Nightfall

Nightfall

shade
shadow
awaken
free your darkness
float through time’s window
slide out into the wide open
slither your ebony being
through first silver moonlight
constrict your black skin
around the dusk
hold twilight
breathless
fade

Somewhere Off a Dirt Road

Somewhere Off a Dirt Road

Somewhere off a dirt road
curled up in the dust
I fell fast in love
with the beauty of grass
behind a fence of barbwire
below a hill of grazing cows

As they wander, I follow the cows
far away from the dirt road
through a hole in the barbwire
to a place unreached by dust
alone with the grass
I let myself feel the leaves of love

Deep in that field, I make jeep love
with the farmer of the cows
our act is judged by the grass
we should have waited for the dirt road
but there would have been so much dust
and a difficult gate of barbwire

Found guilty and punished, I use barbwire
to fence around my love
bury him under a thickness of dust
walk on his grave with the cows
who flow toward the dirt road
searching for autumns last grass

When it dies, the grass
becomes sharp as barbwire
choked by the dirt road
lost, without rain’s love
I leave with the cows
the field becomes dust

I force my pain to be dust
so my tears feed the grass
bringing back the stray cows
who escaped the barbwire
I once again try to love
living at the end of a dirt road

I round up the cows, spit out the last of the dust
we leave behind the dirt road, drifting together in spring grass
I crawl under the barbwire and fall fast sleep with my love

Mane

Mane

by Kimberly Beer

The revelation to
your deepest secrets
can be found
in the mane
of a horse,
each tangle
an unraveling
of a question
you didn’t even know
how to ask.

Making Hay

Making Hay

by Kimberly Beer

When summer finally
steals July breathless
and the shade holds
every living being hostage,
it will be the time for
farmers to go to the field
and make hay.

First comes the cutting.
The severing of the grass
from its mother earth.
This parting makes
the sweetest perfume
that hangs about
the field like a
new lover over
morning coffee.

Then there is the raking.
The tossing and spinning
of the shorn grass
with the hot air.
When it’s done,
you can stand
knee deep
in fluffy rows of
clover,
lespedeza,
timothy,
orchard grass,
and fescue.

The baler follows,
swallowing the windrows
one deep row
after the next
until it becomes
too full and stops to
bind and wrap,
to release the bale
back onto the
freshly swept
carpet of green.

Stacked in rows,
aged to gold
the bales will wait,
patiently,
quietly, until
winter’s eventuality
removes the last
of autumn’s warmth
and the deepest of snow
paints the world white.
Then it will be time
for the farmer to break
open the bales, to
release to the cows
a precious taste of the
summer sun’s love.

Be a Better Procrastinator

Be a Better Procrastinator

make it a practice to:
wander
amble
saunter
dawdle
meander
roam
drift

at every opportunity:
take time to digress
revel in getting sidetracked
stray from the appointed
deviate from the common
mosey away from structure

allow yourself to:
veer into passion
rove toward jubilation
prowl after pleasure
swerve around happiness
stroll with delight

do not ever be guilty in your:
bliss
glee
euphoria
felicity
elation
rapture