Half Asleep from a Late Afternoon Nap

A long gray strand of God’s hair
snakes across the dining room table
out of the chicken casserole.

A portrait of Sequoia sits on the fireplace mantel
with his alphabet inscribed as a paper frame
within the wooden frame.

A bee that inadvertently flew into the house
now bangs all his buzz
on the picture window viewing the terraced garden.

The gray strand of hair is twenty-two feet long
that is why I ascribe it to God
and not grandfather or grandmother.

My Apple computer products
contain the Cherokee font package
as I begin to learn Sequoia’s native language.

I open the door then use my hand against the window
to guide the bee to freedom and home
only to let four flies in.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

Darkening Fieldwork

My childhood house
was built on a hill side—
terraced walls observable
out the dining room
picture window.

Sunset was never visible—
only the buckets of blood red sky
way above the horizon.

A bee tried to apply
its definition of god
to the window glass
as it buzzed furiously
to get at the centerpiece vase
with its bright bouquet.

I found the bee asleep
on the windowsill
the next morning.

I lost my yellow Tonka dump truck
somewhere in a sandbox
construction project
when a catastrophic landslide
buried several toy workmen
we never found.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney