maybe that’s where eve lives–

uphill, in the vineyard, immediately,
behind the house, i walk,
four little kids in tow & muddy
rubber boots,

on balmy evenings
before dark, quiet paths &
barefoot on brown soil,
breathing

craZy at times, in a downpour,
orientation lost like that funny
woman, who walks her dog
by letting him
run behind her car on noGo roads, &

exHaust in my face as

autumn throws
her golden gown,
absorbed in thoughts, pressed
in the wind, i sit

by the grapes, (too close– i know),
giggling daisies brush my bare knees,
passed the “DoN’t pAss” sign
already (I’m just– dang it– I’M
No thiEf) &

through slightly split lips,
distance shrinks,
just oNce– touCH their

firm, warm skin,
peel back& rel//Ease

—-stripeS of
——juicy flesh, their
rib(Less)cage
——–against my teeth–

tabooed teRritory, in a
sudden shiver, pull my hand back,
blisters on my fingertips, i
DaMnKnow– StoP

iT.

though the loNGing

almost kills me.

.

Mary has us writing Leonard Cohen or sense of place poems– first thing that jumped to my mind was the vineyard behind our house.. took the kids there for walks, rain or shine..ha… and when hubs came home from work in the evening, i left him with kids and greasy pans and ran up the hill, just to have a bit of space to breathe…many good times up there, many a battle fought as well..smiles..dVerse pub doors open at 3pm EST