the January tree
the way wind was winter against my face;
I swallowed some snowflakes
as I stepped along the creek
and saw the past lingering
in mist above the fields
there was a tree
strong and alone
and we stood in January
Precisely
I don’t ask for much
because I can barely carry the things
I already have
and even if I lost everything,
I’d still have the burden
of trying to describe
why colors of the sky are enough.
We are busy little stardusts
I fear the answer is deep inside
a finger-string game
and that we’ve been bamboozled
by misdirection
of naughty birds
who show us rings and found words
so we’re carried away
into a beautiful and deadly chaos.
I think we forgot who we are.
If a tree falls…
Would you still hear me
in the quiet woods of night
when it seems empty on top
but there’s scurrying beneath?
I like to sing about green things
like a spiraling embrace in fog.
When it gets very cold,
I imagine being suspended
like a frog in an icy pond,
longing to leap and love
in a welcoming sun.
But today, the woods are empty
and winter is upon us
(can you hear me?).
Skyscrapers and a bovine shimmy
It’s hard to tell when sadness is allowed
when buildings impede sunshine
on railroad tracks below
but travelers are just happy to be moving.
It reminds me of searching for lyrics
on a cassette insert and finding
I rather liked my mistakes better.
We danced to many mistakes
to the tune of our frantic hearts.
He had a beautiful analogy about dancing
with me being like shuffling with cattle.
Moo, I say, smiling and wiggling.
