Good Friday on the Little Spokane

The deer, their coats matted and brown,
will not stay.
They risk the road instead.
The turkey turns his back,
is deliberate,
spreads his feathers.
The river pushes past,
smug with forward motion.
Its grasses press down,
stay low,
feign indifference.
The meadow
is heavy
with still water,
winter’s unwanted remains.
She assents.
She contains.

Unearthing

I am not one
to sift and select.
It requires a sense
of purpose.
To be so direct
is to presuppose progress.
To insist on methodology
presumes too much.
To test one’s hypothesis
is to risk such
an undoing
of one’s worth.

It spins one silly,
out around the sun
and wrenches one
loose
from her
flat, cool earth.

This is a draft of a poem I wrote of readwritepoem's first poetry mini-challenge. Two more drafts/poems to come.