Dazed If hawks suddenly started making honey on my property, the sight of such enormous honeycombs would jar me jolt me into that place where too much scares me, makes me feel nervous fearful I won't have enough closet space or gratitude to handle the overflow of such abundance, and I can't be like that quarterback who wanted to win the Super Bowl all of his life, only to find that the minute he won it, he was empty, and knew only the greatest-of-all-time spirit could fill all the holes and hexagons of his want because I have already caught that ball and still I have to keep catching it from bad throws of my own making so, who knows why my first inclination is to startle, then run from too much plenty until I find that peace, to settle in to remember, I can open all the jars of sweet contagious zeal, spread it thick on all the empty slices in my sight
Susan Shea is a retired school psychologist who was raised in New York City, and is now living in a forest in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. Since she has returned to writing poetry this year, her poems have been accepted in a few dozen publications, including Ekstasis, Across the Margin, Feminine Collective, Persimmon Tree Literary Magazine, Military Experience and the Arts, and the Avalon Literary Review.
Amethyst Review 