David Beebe

Corinthians


Love is a lazy river.
Love is a tight pair of jeans.
Love is the passing of a cool canteen
in the shade of a breezy willow tree.
Love is one cigarette lighting another.

Love is in tell-tale signs, last call, or a thunderstorm in autumn.
Love is a crack inching its way across the windshield.
Love is North Dakota, seen through the bedroom window of a beautiful girl.

Love is a parent choosing their child over God.
Love is the epilogue.

David Beebe

In Light Of


The path bends through goldenrod and field thistle,
prairie sumac and Virginia creeper as I am gently
kissed by honeybees in the late September sun.
I ignore power lines, interstate tumult, groans of a
distant train, and in the shade of whispering bur oak
and hickory, the jagged teeth of stolen history prods
at the soles of my feet.