Trembling with joy,
limbs and wings askew
fluttering awake
amid the cool autumn breeze,
the moth doesn’t wonder
if it’s too late
to chase the light.

Pennsylvania has thousands of runaway
minks on the loose.
Everyone online seems to want
to have the best death stories
(“look at me & how fast I can fall!”)
There is a slight chance
the comet will pause and wink at us.

There is a secret tenderness
right around lunchtime.
Nobody would guess how deep
the trench around our hearts goes.
When you know, you know.

Fireflies are missing, Ophelia is coming,
and still the Rothkos wait for me.

The blinds are half shut, little lines of light
spilling onto the desk. The screen is dark.
There’s a mechanical pencil, an apple,
and a sprig of lavender.
My hands rest near a notebook
but my spirit is wandering
all over forests and early autumn,
hearing crunchy leaves and wind
brushing by the moon.
I like these times of quiet,
a midday fugue,
reminding me of the quiet of night
when stories come alive
in shadow and in heart,
my heart full of color and hope
in a slowly chilling landscape.

Mostly I wake unsettled,
holding the tail end of a dream,
a few images crisp
but only for seconds before fading,
like an old flash bulb, leaving
just a feeling of having held something

My vision is spotty at best anyway
so whether I’ve got a kite at the middle
or the end of the line, I’m still looking up
as it floats further away

There is flight and fog,
music with no words,
and a sense of missing a step
as I navigate clouds
with no inner compass