I like people best who
hurl themselves at their passions,
who live inside their furies,
who aren’t afraid to rant and rave.
People who take the months of
winter to build canoes for summer,
who knead bread because they need
to smell yeast and flour dancing
to become one.
In my youth I stood, brush in hand,
in awe at the whipping
wheat on the berm behind my house,
looking for the far-off hint of tomorrow,
wondering, Where did yesterday go?
I fought like a pike with a hook in its mouth,
unrelenting and fierce for a world filled
with the necessity of beauty.
I genuflected to the cottonwoods,
leafy spurge, mica speckled stones.
As my chest swelled like the red-breasted robin’s
I thought, Yes, this is a life.