You can almost smell them curled
asleep or stretched across smooth rocks,
shining shades of earth, charming
and deadly. They don’t want trouble,
come home each year to make a living,
to together stand above the grasses
wrapped in urgent procreation
as the dry seeds roll in painted gourds—
the dance begins, as they collapse
and rise again. To stay connected,
I’m told that the penis is shaped
like a T —barbs both sides— and
that she can draw upon the sperm
as needed for years. Generations
of brothers and sisters know
their way home. Grandmothers
carry the future and grandfathers watch
and listen, crawl into your mind
to know your secrets, to hear
your confessions to all the ridgeline
men long-gone before you.
drycrikjournal 
This one is superb on so many levels, amigo.
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Ahh, thank you George, I’ve been struggling. Maybe Covid, maybe politics, maybe the heat, I don’t know. It probably needs a little more editing. You know how it is to get one done after such a long stretch of mediocrity that you consider to quit trying to write altogether.
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I agree with George. No aging or disconnect here. This is you at your best!
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Thanks Louise. Likewise, you know too. Stay cool, stay safe.
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You can’t quit. And that’s good.
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I think that this God awful time has brought out some of your very best, including this one. JEG is right……… dont even think about it!
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