The lilies-of-the-valley are almost ready.

The roses are stretching their roots.

There’s a tree dying out front.

The stones are stalwart.

It’s windy here most of the time.

The sun pulls the sky to and fro.

I move about inside, fluffing my nest.

She didn’t notice her umbrella was broken.

He strutted nude in the dark.

It seems she was someone else

when there was an interminable fracas.

He tried repeatedly to recreate the rhythm

of things falling apart; it made her smile.

Neither smiled when they kissed.

He didn’t mention the coming rain.

She shimmied as the wind changed.

With a face full of feathers,

she danced slowly around the perimeter

of the field.

It was a delicate procedure,

with a few frogs awakening

in the thawed pond nearby.

Her song remained in her throat,

as she waited to bloom in the meadow

with a spring sun.

I’m not saying I’d not fight

for another day

to frolic amid books and traffic,

but though I’ve dreamed of thatching,

my shingles have been well-hung.

All the toothpaste, all the doughnuts…

I’ve had my time in the sun.

Left on our own,

we’d all taste like mushrooms

after a storm.

We’re called to dirt

and other low things.

But he tasted the sea after she was gone.

An overwhelming sense of blue.

There was talk

of digging to find lost souls

on the other side of the world

but there was just magma beneath

a sleepy world.

We’re ready to blow

but it won’t be volcanic;

it will be a whispering whining

like a popped balloon

when we face our ruin.