Here’s a new poem for Spring, for the Year of the Wood Goat (MY sign!) and for all of us who have “come back to laughter.”
Goat-skipping down I come
ringing my chime of bells –
gold-eyed goat-fool, ancient
madwoman, blind eyes blue with sky.
Bell-spilled from snowtop
through lupine and buttercup and gold-throat lilies
whuffling snow-smell noisy as a horse.
Narrow hooves clatter me straight up-boulder
and I kick heels for nothing but fun, buck bell-spangles
into icy mineral-scented air.
When I was a child I lived in trees
swam across mudpuddles, careened
down hills, dizzy as a roundhouse.
I rolled in the backyard tickling
my cousins – giggling, squint-eyed,
rosy with pleasure.
Now I’ve come back to laughter –
late in the day and maybe sun-blinded –
to drown in dirt, galaxies whirling
headlong rolling down
the mountain of my life,
bells clanging, goat-mad.