The Bard of Liminga — Ray Sharp

To whom can I give thanks
for this perfect day, when
I do not know my Creator’s name?

To the red pines we planted,
for blocking the northwest wind;

To the russet oak leaves,
for cushioning my steps on the trail;

To the soil and seeds and fruit of the garden,
for nourishing my body;

To the hens for sharing their eggs,
and the roosters for watching over them;

To my family for standing with me,
like the pines;

To my friends for adding color and comfort to my life,
like the leaves;

To my own mind for when it’s fertile and productive,
like the garden;

And to my readers for sharing themselves
and crowing their kee-kee-ree-kee praises.

May we all rest tonight, and open ourselves
tomorrow to receive the day’s blessings,
from whence they came I know not. Amen!

The white horse is in the yard again.
Not a ghostly white apparition, no
apocalyptic steed, just the neighbor’s
dusty old gelding, a solid muscularity
of grass-eating purpose, neck and chest
and haunches heavy on spindly legs
like an inverted pyramid, tearing
clumps of grass with a rip-chew-breathe
like an army of leaf-cutter ants in a
microphone forest.
                                 My mood
is not dull like the old horse’s coat,
it is shiny black, iridescent, a raven 
in a blizzard on a Mountain Ash,
gulping the last red berries.
I grind the beans to a fine powder.
The fragrance of coffee floods the room,
a hurricane, a tsunami, first breaking wave
of another black and white day shading to gray.