It wasn’t the rite before the altar
but the way, next morning
when I fell over that damn rock,
you picked me up and held me.
'I’m OK,' I kept saying, 'I’m not hurt,'
as if I didn’t want to lean
forever against your chest.
You’d slept all night by the fire,
I in your truck. You told
of waking, watching
a red eagle soar from the trees.
[Poem #12]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent, lapsing and resuming) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
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