What is this fabric THING?
I pull it out: I WRING! I FLING!
And, at last, BEING no closer
To the answer than when I started,
I announce with sweet relief:
“this is GOING into the rag bag!”

Georg’ann

There was that time when
my cousin touched
the electric fence.
Not a bad SHOCK, given
it was designed to dissuade cows
not little girls. Always pushing,
enticed by challenge, danger.

She climbed to the roof,
scaled the tv antenna even higher,
walked across the icy pond.
It didn’t give way until the edge,
only fell in thigh deep.
Grandma thought a BOARD
on the butt would deter
future adventures. Though belts
and switches hadn’t yet crushed
her spirit, in fact probably
propelled her reckless impulses.

Often we ran wild in the woods,
scampering over fallen trees,
swinging on grape vines,
splashing in the creek.
Making huts in the brambles.
In recall, there is light through
tree branches haloing her
copper hair with shining gold.

Nestled in the beech leaves
a mother bear, her TOTEM come
to protect this wild, restless one.
Some might dispute my recall
as FOLLY. But she was there.
Heidi’s spirit animal. Maternal
love missing outside these woods.

Or was it mine? After all she was
my vision. That has never occurred
to me, though the desire to guard
children has been GOING since
those early days when
generational rage sent us running
toward nature or hiding in closets.

Heather