go to the State Fair
to be a loyal Minnesotan,
but if you do go
You don’t have to run the gauntlet
of cotton candy vendors, get snarled
like a cat in it’s sticky yarn;
You don’t have to deny your acrophobia
and try out all the machines that are geared
to drive you up beyond a sense of return;
You don’t have to mourn a childhood
that didn’t give you the responsibility
for raising a sheep, a hog or a heifer;
You don’t have to take summer houseguests
along to show off our native crafts or contemplate
all those tiny stitches sewn into quilts;
And you certainly can skirt the fowl barn,
not cluck at chickens who are the genetic pride
of some rather odd feathery folks.
Nor do you need to rush, dodge, or fight
the crowds or take small children along, no matter
how much they plead with you to do so.
But if you go, slow down,
observe what’s going on, the multitude of people.
And look, there’s a cloud of common grackles.
Have you ever noticed anything beyond their noise?
Seen how their shiny coats refract the light
and how lovely their feathers of purple and bronze?
Now relax with long pieces of observation
cooled by the breeze off the Tilt-a-Whirl,
and take colorful flight into the afternoon.

This afternoon is on its side,
and the trees are lit like firecrackers
shattering the smooth surface of the sky.
The hour has a voice of smoke.

The sounds of squirrels
troubling acorns bounce
ahead of me as I follow them
on the path to the lake.

I’m taking the advice
of the bookstore clerk —
Go watch the water
while it is still moving.

Booba the cat
fur as sleek
as silk
black as any chic
Italian designer
could fashion
wears her aristocratic green eyes
two gem stones
shaped like olives
and sits by the archway
aloof.

Tidbits, perhaps
if offered.

She ignores the sun
her haughty back turned
to it.

Swish Swish
side to side
from the “c” to the “t”
her tail revealing
she is born
for
this
con
ment.
tent

Pump-
kin,
keyhole eyes
burning
you bring shadow thoughts
of passing time Hallowed Being
calm unafraid faced toward
mystery instruct us
with your light
comfort us.

Here the earth is rusted by November
all the greenery grown dry

Leaves wave a final fragile
shake and the prairie grows golden hair

The landscape, open now, no pretenses
just a hand-me-down wardrobe for earth

Soon a spool of crystals will weave
a quilt of white over the russet ground

A poem has a mission something like fall
to be open, to see fragile mystery

To accept whiteness as a cover
not as an end to words

To leave space for the return
of the first leaf shadows of spring