Irish Moon
Wounded
among her trees,
it’s 3:20 a.m.
I ponder her
as a long pour
of Guinness
on a slow night.
Vow
heal with her
bend with her
have faith in her
next breath
land with her
imagine her
be in love with her
belong to her
without hiding
under her altar
Amy
I honour you
Your fierceness
and devotion
To family and friends
Your calling to be a teacher
and your love of nature
Of God’s creatures
Your sense of humour, too
I honour you
the place in you
that invites the beggar
to stand for what is
How you strive to respect
those who disagree with you
I honour your light
Your grace
A beauty that brings light
to every space
I honour our friendship
Our children
and the way
you make me proud
How to Render the World
Get your fingers messy
with charity.
It’s making Grandma’s meatballs
from scratch.
Get the egg yolk, oil and onion
in between your fingernails,
massaging the neck rolls
and foot cramps of the poor.
Independence
Cross-legged
by a ventilator
I sank my toes
in the trout hole
and hummed
“Bye, Bye, Ms.
American Pie”
and the blue morning
grew dark, as the
river stopped breathing.
The World May
need poems again
in this time of survival
like tin can sealed
peaches in a root cellar.
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image: George Payne