17 beats

Here the busy trail traffic slowed and stoppedin quiet contemplation. 

Through the twists and turns along this way,it’s nice to have a yellow dog.

I have everything and nothing from which to produce 17 beats. 

When life feels like a long muddleit helps to have sweet peas that are red.

That time we told our six -year-old we’d be renting a house on P Street.

In the rhythm of seasons, fireweed keeps timeand we have come to this.

Open faces turned to the sun now laid to dry for a cup of tea.

A midnight trip to the airport turned up her boys and so much pure joy.

Tight green buds on tall stalksexplode into fireworks of gorgeous design.

Day after daythis laundry builds the paththat I am following home.

I got ripped from sleep by an urpy dog, but what an easy brightside!

I wonder what they’ll remember from their clop cloppy ride down our street.

It’s high tide on a warm sunny evening and I’m just checking the clock.

It’s August! and I’m still walking the path, counting beats, building a life.

It’s an odd quiet out there on the water at the end of July.

Last Monday I picked apples from my grandma’s favorite applesauce tree.

She hiked to see the glacier, but really she’s a backyard sorta girl. 

By stalks of blooming fireweedor perhapsa massive melting glacier.

I spotted a neat bit of wild art on my morning walk in the rain. 

What is the word for walking amongst the fruits of our backyard labor?

I should not pass the opportunity to give some beats to a goat.

Farewell sandal lines! too briefly I knew you, but how I did love you!

I’ve come home to find the dahlias blooming right here in my own backyard.

There are so many ways to think about paths and metaphors abound.