I’m not a poet. I can’t rhyme worth a damn, nor can I stick to a meter. Disclaimers aside, I wrote this in the months following Britta’s departure from Alaska this summer and share it here for your amusement. Britta, perhaps you’d like to add some stanzas?
Tribute to the Sisterhood
We are the eaters of bread-butts, we are the soakers of beans.
We are canners and honey mead-makers, we add salt to our slow-boiling dreams.
We scoff at purveyors of bullshit, we are the rollers of eyes.
We skip when no-one is looking, we trip when we look at the skies.
We pause to identify flowers, we stoop to poke at the scat.
We piss off the sides of tall mountains, we shat at the glacial errat.
We are the laughers at mishaps, we have time for very few rants.
We are the clumsy beer-sloppers, we tear holes in the knees of our pants.
We are the front-row foot-stompers, we dance when the beat stirs our feet.
We are the wanton hip-shakers, without music we aren’t complete.
We wear earrings in the backcountry, we stand tall in high heels or big boots.
We have lived in all kinds of countries, we give credence to all of our roots.
We are the sketchers and schemers, we sit idle for hours at a time.
We sip on bourbon Jim Beamers, we pour glass after glass of red wine.
We thrive on wide-open vistas, we wilt when we feel we are trapped.
Our powers are strong and emerging; our lives have yet to be mapped.