Coyote could eat me in one snap, maybe two,
but not more than ten,
Friend crow, calls me, “Listen up, drifter, see the pale bristle at seven o’clock,”
Twin marbles meeting mine,
I am meat if the cad but dares,
the sycamores will not tell,
the summer children lay sleeping,
until hunger wakes fear,
fear, a wild dog that waits.
Maryrose Smyth lists her passions as family, art making, and Wildwood Park, a still wild artist oak preserve in the inside pinky toe of the Altadena foothills. A place, when in studio mode she calls Blondewood, her own personal woods-planet where humor is a woman’s best policy for eeking out the too little time for writing, painting, kid chasing, bee hosting, keeping secret her Irish Soda Bread recipe and the up to no good again critters requiring much arm flapping to stop who knows what from eating the best tomatoes all while coaxing goodwill from trick muses and bridge trolls whispering behind her back, not forgetting to jiggle the charm handle of her family’s 1910 former milk shed’s plumbing.
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