It Is Such A Beautiful Day In Lloyd

No Sunday blues here, I feel as washed clean as the whites I have hanging on the line. Diapers and sheets, undershirts and underwear, kitchen towels and dishrags. The holy hot sun is bleaching and drying them. My soul, too.


The chickens let free and they flap and flock and follow Elvis, the man, they sit on the nest, they peck at the corn I scatter for them, making sweet throat-sounds, making me happy just watching them.

The prettiest little office in the world. At some point on this beautiful day, I will sit in there and spin something out of my mind, even if just one poem. This is a vow and a promise to myself and I am holding that promise in my heart like a romantic secret.


Part of my yard, my begonia with its giant leaves, the tiny white blossoms, the someday-done pond in the background. Everything is so green, so lush, so fecund here now. At night when I walk outside the smell of it all is overwhelming. I can smell the growth on top of the sweet decay underneath. Life and all of it in one slow inbreath.


I made him pancakes and we ate them with real maple syrup and then he cleaned the kitchen. No one can clean a stove top like Mr. Moon and that's the truth. My lover, my man, my friend, the guy I'm about to go pick blackberries with.

It's Sunday, it's so hot, it's so beautiful, and here I am in the world, this is my song like the mockingbird's as he tells us all that this, this, this, is his spot.