dusk becoming duskier

the particular sound
of the metal plates under my running-shoed feet
as i run over them
across the trainbridge
and back again
while the cool (but not yet as cold as it’s going to get)
bites at my cheekbones
and thinly-layered forearms
_______
the skin of my right hand
glowing bright pink
while washing the sandy dirt of tubers
in the 36-degree-feels-like-27-degree
whose weather conditions feature harsh winds
while i kneel by the spiggot
_______
in the video tutorial
by the dahlia guy
i learn to find where the eyes
on dahlia tubers are and what they look like
and where to cut the interlocking puzzle of them
(which reminds me so much of harvesting
galangal on the big island)
_______
the dahlia tubers
snipped and trimmed
laid out on newspaper to dry
on the kitchen table
all 6 varieties
(some featuring as few as 5 tubers,
some as many 12 15)

_______
from a distance, what i think could be
a heron or some kind of white crane anomoly
reveals itself (as i approach slowly with two cats swirling
about my ankles) as a plastic gallon jug and a couple
of beer cans
bullet-punctured (target practice) and perched atop
several rebar posts stuck into the ground
_______
how on thickly clouded days like this one
the sun dips down into horizon
without ever being seen
from here
(which might be something like
when a tree falls in the forest
and no one is around to hear it
does it still make a sound)
_______
cartful and cartful plus
forkful and forkful of mulch
how i move it (the hay)
as long as i can until i can no longer see
(dusk becoming duskier)
the pitchfork tines
_______
sounds like a pound in there someone in the kitchen
says about emory, ada and raven
in the living room yipping and whining
like puppies
at a pound
_______
don’t be afraid of it baigz says
to trish about the stew-soup
on the butcher block he made for dinner

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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