DRY CRIK Journal

I come prepared to edit, to cut and slash
hoping for refinement, some hope
for us all in that illusive space

where events unfurl from easy dreams –
that middle ground of pastoral song,
of grass and animals, legs deep in green.

The poem comes to me in the shower,
in the steam, line after lyric line
I must have read, I must have written

in my sleep – you all were there
and we breathed sweet harmony.
Too quick to remember, the words

streamed in banner lines I tried
to memorize, each ricochet leading
me away from the song still floating

somewhere in my mind. I could see it
happening, the real possibility that
with a little good luck we will survive.

                        - for Linda Hussa