The net

A whole galaxy may be squished
into the tuft of a pussy willow
and I’d never know the swaying reeds
were a communication from beyond.

When imagining great things, it’s so often
bridges or battles or cathedrals or
delicate mastery of limbs or rhymes
or it may be a brain larger than a whale’s eye.

I can’t decide how big the holes should be
because I haven’t narrowed down
what I should be capturing.

Brush of wings

We’re softly hungry,
unfolding before moonrise.
Flight is a mystery
with no need of answers;
just being borne aloft
is enough with an open sky
and another soul to brush by.

It’s been hard to hear
the song of grass and trees
over the din of teacups
and traffic and a sky full
of tormented birds.

I was uplifted
when the hawk captured the bunny;
it was equally satisfying
no matter whose side I was on.

 

Connect the dots

 

Rusty swinging gate
trembling hands
swelling kisses
formica and coffee
blanket cave

screaming sunrise
the butler didn’t do it
potted plant
wooden table with book
sighing sunset

dusty scrolls
stone fire bread
thick socks
clutching tenderly
frosty window

counting
following nothing
humming
smiling regardless
uncapturing.

 

Gutted 

The sky is
a split gourd with pulp strewn about,
clouds / seeds / crazy bird flights –
are they laughing at our ineptitude?
We have no plans worth saving
and all that’s gooey
is comfort / revival / love poem
with much viscera and kisses.