Monday is being a girl arriving
at a picnic with a muffin in a paper bag
while other people unpack
beautiful baskets of cheeses, breads,
grapes, fried chicken, deviled eggs,
berries, nuts, salads, cakes, plates,
cloth napkins, silverware, glasses, wine,
lemonade, books, and blankets
to spread beneath the heavenly branches
of a blooming spring tree.

A soft wandering becoming another shade
of craving at nightfall.
No wires crossed or alarms ringing.
Most of the birds have quieted.

What words fit the shape of love?
Soft, twisting branches, or breaking waves
along some faraway place only we can find,
or maybe something simpler like… touch.

There are unnameable forces we try to fit
inside colors or sounds but it is as if we try
to swallow storms whole and explain the aftertaste- like storm sommeliers.

An infinite number of planes and somehow
we find our way to each other,
nodding at the inevitability of the magic
as we devour day after day with joy.

The morning brought a sea
of white flowers.
I am not of the sea; my language
is of the air and of the earth-
which makes my love affair with trees
make perfect sense.
Trees teach me to bend and move
where wind chooses me to be,
and I submit wholly to their wisdom.

I spoke aloud on my way to town
this morning, voicing my fears
and secret hopes. The white flowers
felt like encouragement.
I don’t understand the path I am on
or where it will take me
but when I got near the bridge,
a large eagle flew across the road,
close enough for me to see talons and eyes.
I felt something in my belly and in my spirit
leap as if to join him as he flew
into the white flowering trees.

The moon has grown three sizes smaller
as I’ve watched her tonight,
first taking up a whole window pane
and now just a sliver
as she climbs the hills behind my house.

Lovers too far apart by normal measures
seem to float on moonbeams
when the magic is just right,
bridging silly constructs like time or distance
in a bid for a perfect bedtime story.

The morning is far enough away
that I can practice breathing while I watch
the moon follow her path, whether I am blue
or full of joy or muddled over silliness
like time or distance

We spin tales
out of threads
we had given up
for lost
and our story grows
longer than hands
can hold.

The hardest part
is waking
to find we are holding
only wisps of dreams.