Impressions of spring

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A delicate placement,
thoughts beneath soil,
beneath minutes
that may be eons in seedling time.
A yawning hum of strings
brushed by morning tongue
near fallen clouds,
near sticky beginnings.
A movement meant for sun
turning strong,
turning over a new plan
before breath is fully released.

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The Dissolute

Shuffling in snow, exploring dissolution
before the sky clears.
There are few questions worth the trouble.

But what are loose connections?
Where do we find solace?
Does what we believe stay the same
even as we change shape?

I think I want to know things.
I haven’t found my favorite poem yet.
I think I’m supposed to keep walking.

Wings and gears

There were thirteen sparrows
somewhere besides here
and they were given gears
and serrated switchplates to help them fight.
Someone wrote about them,
mistaking the mechanisms and mania
for free flight.

A poem can fly without seeing;
I’d like to try looking down farther
than my feet but I’m afraid it’s just magma and shale. I’m not ready to be a fossil.
Give me wings and gears.
Who needs to be free?

Weather Delay

It takes four or five days
of constant kissing to know if she
will follow you through
dry canyons or flooded gardens
though if you venture to the post office
in a snowstorm, it may take longer
to allow the possibility
neither of you know what you’re doing
and it’s ok.

Smiling into a spoon

Yesterday’s just an excuse
to stare at swiveling caterpillars
and sip our juice with no pants

I miss the days of the sidecar
but we can’t stay wrapped up
in leather and wisteria

It’s a heavy tumult that greets middle age
but we can surreptitiously spit
whatever doesn’t fit our spoonful of sunset.