Where I grew up there are some bells on the door and a Very Old Goat. There are some other things too. Chickens just next door, for instance. Littles and pancakes and tickles and tag. Twinkly aspens, a rooster that crows. My little family and cold beers on a warm evenings, and my big family too. Painted toes. The first margarita of summer, an outside fire and the cool of the evening smelling of smoke. My birfday mama. And houses with bells on the doors that used to be my houses that are not my houses now but still sort of are. I pat the Very Old Goat and the Worn Pup and give them lubs and thank them for being the goat, the oggie-dog. I wonder if I will see them again. I kiss the cheeks and shoulders of those I love. It is enough/it is never enough.
Then I am home in my new house, my now house.
I'll need to hang bells on the door.
10 maids a-milking:
so yesterday at the table of spicy things when you told me that you'd wanted to be a poet? i didn't expect you to do it so quickly, but here you are.
would it be ok if maybe, i could grow up where you grew up?
I agree. Get you some bells.
i melt.
One should always hand bells on one's door.
Lauren, you are a dear. A DEAR.
Celia, please do.
I've always always had bells on my door until now; I'm not sure how it slipped my mind.
It is enough/it is never enough.
Yes.
(I am glad you are feeling at home now.)
Yay! You're back! And you were in CO! With a resident Pan, no less!
Hurrah, A! Hurrah!
I do love an old goat.
And Lauren's right, you're already a poet my love.
oh I want to grow up there too. really.
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