It’s complicated remaining a simple child,
especially for a woman nearing 46:
loving the smell of the bread drawer
and getting frustrated at how delicate mechanical pencils are;
forgetting math but remembering birthdays;
keeping a secret island going
for decades- a place no one else is allowed, where naked joy is mandatory;
hoping for mail and ignoring disappointment;
staring so long at the sky so everything wears a halo for the afternoon;
being satisfied with made-up tunes for constantly running mental scenes that require a soundtrack in a minor key;
and trying everything by licking it first.

I dreamt of a river, slow and icy
around my limbs.
The floe was seductive
and old
and a deep blue.

When I awoke,
Spring was a surprise.

The cold sweat of carrying too much too far
when you have miles to go
before you sleep.
A keyboard in another language
(we speak plainest in the riddle of prayer).
Joyful reunions with lizards and twilight.
Rocking into night,
leading with the hips.
Confusion of falling crazy in love
with someone who’s fallen into a zen state.
Water, water everywhere without
a ship to sink,
we all float (in the end).

Someone was screeching,
“get the hell off the porch
and into the basement!”
It was my conscience.
She is a lazy bitch.
I wanted to stand there for hours,
swaying in the wind
as the spring storm surrounded
and held me within its warm grip,
the smell intoxicating –
of earth and rain,
like the place I nuzzle
at his neck, after,
when we have had our storm.

With a hush that fell
when all was asleep,
sensory mechanics
of bread, rain, and
a white knitted poncho from childhood
came rushing back to me
–
the fog this morning
was most glorious…
spaces between ages
showed necessary lines;
I will never be as beautiful
but possibly as misunderstood
since carried on vapors
are lessons of silence,
as simple as love or adrenaline
and burned just as quickly.