Author: lbstowe

The delicate dance of buck & doe; nature old as time.
Yet, consider the double doe; or the buck & buck in prime.

Though nature’s reins are rarely seen, she still holds them all the same.
Outside of plague, of age or hunter, their numbers are her claim.

“Fruitless” pairings born of love; rare efficiencies of value?
Falling into unique cadences…friends, or mates, what have you.

Being life’s exceptions, they set new tones for interaction.
Carers of each other, they’re an addition…not subtraction. 

So, celebrate the buck & doe, their purity of purpose.
Yet, treasure culture’s rarer gifts; or do the whole disservice.

Of all the forms of scarification our muscles might be the best.
They literally, & figuratively, put fiber to the test.

Ripped, torn & then healed over; remembering each wound along the way.
For some bear proof of discipline, great mounds of scar tissue on display.

Some are leaner, carved of iron wire, stronger than the chalk they house.
Deceptively sturdy with far more endurance than their frame allows.

Some are giant mastodons with hard & impenetrable facades.
Borders of beastly & beauty, oiled shiny, like Olympian gods.

Even those that can’t, or won’t, try to hew their physiques to some ideal.
Every body’s got muscles…regardless of effort or appeal.

Some break free to edges budge.
Most stay mired in bubbling sludge.

No more pulled by skyward glance.
Thoughts beyond, a happenstance.

Solemn sweet to think of past.
Ties that broke when life pulled fast.

Occupied with this life’s work.
Pressure held by tombstone’s cork.

Thoughts waft by of those released.
Lost by time, survived, deceased.

Radiant pools of light on the floor.
Warm the skin with a promise of more.

In that shaft is a truth & a lie.
Spring is here; but winter’s not gone by.

Like orange & yellow daffodils;
Blooming thru frost with their sunny frills.

A draft dispels this sun craft charm.
There’s still danger of frostbitten harm. 

Yet, slowly light’s fraud becomes the truth…
The world will warm & all will be couth.

It’s harder these days to plead naïve.
Now cresting my own midsummer’s eve.

Looking for chances to change my tune.
No bounty of options past youth’s boon.

Still, I scan where the boundary’s thin…
For modest paths missed amid youth’s din.

Maybe one trodden by thoughtful feet?
One fine to walk alone, or discreet?

Maybe in dusky twilight boredom;
I’ll find his tracks & sprint toward him.

Fear is the fire that burns my mind.
Gold is the evil that pays in kind.

Need is a hunger rarely sated.
Love is that for which we’ve all waited.

Birth is an act that all growth repeats.
Life is a fight that always defeats.

Hope’s unseen but it’s precious as air.
Desires are bones that each hope wears.

We pant, we heave & we calm our breaths.
While wearing these skins unto our deaths.