I wanted to be

a less caustic Kurt Vonnegut or

a less condescending Ray Bradbury

with a touch of Holly Hobbie

and maybe a smattering

of Dolly Parton.

I now drive a wagonload of Frank O’Hara

mixed with shredded Mrs. Roper,

though I’m not full-muumuu yet…

Artificial Intelligence tells me I look like

Kate Winslet or Nat King Cole

and while I wish for timeless elegance,

I rather think I’m a goldfish

not far from the final flush.

I may spend more time making shortbread

than poems, but I like to think

when you’re through with me,

you feel you’re reading spirograph art.

A song of a faraway river

carried through winding lanes

and complicated highway systems.

How could we know we’d find

we were coordinating puzzle pieces

across miles of moon-kissed clouds?

No counting moments, no looking

forward, no breath for remorse,

no worry of what has passed.

A touch of understanding,

one bruised child to another,

the song gains strength.

An owl from 1930 watched

as I sank my teeth into an apple

and the juice dropped onto my chest.

I was watching a spirited joust

between shadowy limbs and antennae,

not caring to find a winner on the field.

A frog was busy curating mini bridges

so the lily pads would be joined into a

utopian fantasy with plenty of flies for all.

The master craftsman sent clouds

so we could all shiver beneath the power

of timeless summer and faulty memory.

Comparing height to an 80’s lyric

and my heart takes an extra flip

picturing the way

the bassist strummed and glided

like a heron with eyeliner;

I’d even take a cup of coffee

instead of my usual tea

in a classic ceramic mug

if we met at a diner and laughed

about the times we only imagined

instead of the times in between

when we didn’t know better-

that there was someone

who would get the correlation

between dinosaur and fern,

a gentle unraveling of eons

that leads us to value field and forest

as currency for a moment of understanding.