And with the tingle,
a small ribbon
of tender thinking
unfurled,
a kiss tossed
to a jet stream.
Dancing with crickets
You can blame the rain
on a crazy dance
of hair (it’s electric!)
or the boogie-woogie
of moonbeams
as they dally with crickets,
but all it means
is you’ll be wet and breathless
by dawn.
Feel the end of me,
terror fading to light pain
before the sun dies.
We travel toward the same sun
on different planes,
only once in awhile
our lights glance together.
Kindness of strangers
Dare we count
the minutes separating real arcs of joy
as they happen
or do we need something
tangible – a totem? –
to convey the memory of light
before we give way to night?
The Word Rummager 