Possibles

Prompt for: April 16, 2016 (Fyn)
Subject or Theme: Use ONE of the following 3 phrases both as a theme for your poem and in your poem: old winds, unfinished journal or possibles bag (if you don't know what this is, google it!) Be sure your phrase is highlighted in green.

Word(s) to Include: asparagus, antique, muzzle (or any derivatives of these words)

Forbidden Word(s): write, blow, gun, gust, read, weapon (or any derivatives, compound or hyphenations of these words)
Additional Parameters: 24 lines minimum, rhyming or not.

Remember, do not use forbidden words ANYWHERE, including title or the brief description.









Possibles


Ears perked for sound of turkey call, of feathers thrashing
as in a frantic flurry they take to flight,
he heard, instead, faint mewling: short, clipped, weak.
Pausing on the trail, well used deer run down to the Huron River,
he listened to what was heard and
what was not. Not bird call, not the sound of newborn fawn.
He scanned, body still, as early wisps of ground fog swirled.

Winter-fall hickory lay shaggy-barked across the narrow track
just where, each spring, the wild asparagus shot towards the sun
and where, each spring, we'd come to harvest sweet stalks.
Just beyond, nestled for night, a rafter of wild turkeys
feathered the barely greening oak.Can't shoot turkeys still a-tree.
Even still, he sighted them, picked out the toms,
beards hanging long like Spanish moss, gently swaying upwind.

Left hand edging towards his leather possibles bag, slung crosswise over his shoulder,
he fingered out his caller, tucked atop black powder, shot.
Warbled out the turkey call. In the brief silence, heard faint echo of crying.
Memory served and he eyed down, slight irritation. Not a fan of cats.
Curled in new growth, shivering in morning's brisk air,
was a tiny, smoky grey kitten, eyes not yet open. Morning greetings
ruffled feathers in the tree; two turkeys landed gracelessly shuffling last fall's leaves.

A tom unfurled his splendor, opening to perfect shot. Head up, his beard chest long, alert.
Twenty years he'd waited for this moment. Two decades of Spring or Fall
turkey permits had never presented him a shot like this. Front stuffers are mile loud,
deafening. 'Reverberate in your chest' loud as black powder cloud erupts.
The shot was his to take or not. Others would, he knew. Just as he knew
that later, he would probably kick himself, but he'd have to be content, in the knowing,
the bird had been his for the taking. Instead, he lowered and watched the strut.

Kneeing down, he picked up the too cold kitten. It wriggled in his palm.
He did not want a cat. Other people's cats were fine, just not for him.
Tucking it in his pocket, he headed back to the truck, called home, asked me
to make coffee. Meeting him at the door with a mug, he handed me his bag,
telling me I might want to look inside. He wasn't crowing about bagging his quarry,
I grimaced, sighed. He'd been trying for years. Never had so much as a possible shot.
Maybe next year, I thought.

Asleep, curled around his turkey call was a kitten.
"Found it mewing in our asparagus patch," he said. "Had a perfect shot, too."
I know how loud it is, I'd been listening for the report. Hadn't heard a sound.
Warming milk, finding an eye dropper, I curled in my great-grandmother's antique rocking chair
crooning as I fed the hungry kitten. "Found him in the asparagus patch? I'm going to name him Elliot,
like (Aspara) Gus from Cats." Our bichon nuzzles, licks the helpless bit of fur.
"Should name him 'Turkey.' I had one in my sights. He's a turkey, or I am."

I was speechless, muzzled.
He doesn't like cats, but passed on his quarry.
Brought me home a kitten in his possibles bag.
Turkey Elliot burped, snuggled in and slept.
Too long alone, too cold, too something.
Turkey Elliot lasted two days.
He's buried in the wild asparagus patch.

I think of him, this time of year, when my husband
seeks turkey and new asparagus. He's yet to
bring home a bird, brings home green sweetness and lilacs.
A score of years ago, I never believed in the likelihood of today,
that it would ever be feasible for me to be so blissful, content.
Pictured scrap of grey fluff, turkey feather quill, both on my desk,
remind me to believe that, indeed, all things are possible.