Beauty

I remember loosened braids of hair
stray at the night carnival.
Everything was growing on me.
I stood with hurting buds of breasts,
little aching dimes under my nipples,
youthfully afraid and ready to ride.

I shall have braids again, when I'm an old woman.
It is coming.
My face, my rivers,
they are flowing now.
And my eyes, aquamarine rays,
shoot out old blue love
to you forever-
though, all of my questions have been answered.

I look in the day mirror
and practice trills and calls and twist my hair
in the reflection of mountains
behind me, in front of me
walls of mountains.
I will make them all women.
They are growing and beautiful.

 

 

Sunday

Lighten all conduct of life
and race on the country roads
in a fast dust of swinging curves,
jumping cows will stun your reason.
My free boot next to the break
taps out a Colorado beat,
"Cowboy up in Kiowa!"
High plains stretch in a majesty
that will open your heart,
make you want to own land!
Mountains filter miles through the radio
on the edge of a blue song
calling for you
to come for a ride with me.