You think everything I say is lush
and promising today
because it is unseasonably warm
with a wild and heady wind
blowing from the west-
farther west
than we have ever been.

Beware the illusion
of floating roses in moonlight-
my toes firmly grip soil
even as I reach for you;
there is no navigating a spinning moon.

Outside this room,
trembling light
inside determined clouds
fixed on the wrong horizon…

On a silvery beam
sort of hidden
inside a warmth
I don’t understand,
I am held suspended
for a moment
before the tremble
overpowers
and I am tossed
into a strange day
of wakeful sleep
and hungry eyes.

Gathering under the flickering
streetlamp,
a group of seekers
circle an old man, bent
beneath his broken threshold.

I thought the house was vacant
but cracked windows and doors
speak of neglect, not loneliness.

The children seem to want something
and there is some organization
about the scene-
moving so slowly;
almost a still-life.

I drive by slowly
unseen -or at least ignored
having felt like I was here before

but… roofs were thatched,
the earth was mostly untried,
gatherings were inside a stone corral
with fire marking the signs
of gods on earth…

the smell of smoke and soil
hung like a summer tree
laden with fruit

but this was a season of change,
of decay, and what I wanted
-and still want, though roads
are paved and children masked-
is to pluck the fruit and rest in dark.

Melody of us is
years of mornings sharp
and nights blue…
so many verses,
yet a simple refrain.
On adventures
like wind and wood.
We create inside them.
Together.