So, confession. I’ve read about nine hundred pages of teen dystopian fiction this week. I can’t stop….and I won’t stop. I love it. I know that my first born girl is Divergent, and that my second is Dauntless. I believe there is something to that birth-order thing, too, because my second-born is entirely fearless, and as of two and half, unconcerned with my opinion. My second-born will willingly launch herself off anything and she will love it.

Sisters are interesting. I’ve never had one, obvi. I really hate that abbreviation. But still, I think it is interesting to watch my two girls grow up together. They share a room right now, and I don’t see why that cant carry on until they are 25.

Today i have not been able to get away from the ponies. I got home and D-1 told me that I am supposed to get her a farm someday, because that is all she really wants, and I will ride a horse, she will ride a pony, D-2 will ride a donkey, and Brian will ride a Llama. My Dad showed Mae pictures of ponies on the internet when he was too tired to show her anything else this morning. Also, my friend Ian has a ranch Out West. And just birthed two foals, paints, which he breeds as cutters.  It seems that good “cow sense” plus athleticism plus amity makes a good cutter. I’m tempted to write a poem about a paint.

The Paint

I prayed to maintain the best things in us while our breasts were burning.   Once I read about a library and a maze, about a child a fool, and about a fire and a number, Here I thought that you were my friend, and all this time I thought you were a different god. I though of you in chills. I didn’t know about the dance, or the willing laughter, what  we know is that we are made of peeled seeds and wood, and we have somewhere to go in the hot morning. Folded round the sound of the flute, folded around these days of consciousness, folded around each conscience, around these days of springs, of blessed utterances, of our faded terrors, and sliding hillsides.

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Happy Thursday, poemers

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