There are days I drag through, head down
through the deaths of my red dogs,
the oxymoron of religious war,
lists of going-extinct songbirds,
and the sonic bombardment of whales
in war games.
These gumbo muds stick in my stout boots,
tar-goo I cannot shuck off with knives of steel
or wipe clean with rags of woe.
Then another time, when I skip
in the fleeting glimmer of golden leaves,
rejoice in the sweat of a well-danced body,
when I watch whales move through gray waters
as they have done for tens of thousands of years,
or smell onions in stew, cinnamon in pie
this is when I remember
for better or for worse
words we said
that round out
your patience with my sadness.