Unlocked.
how is the heart
of a dark continent
pounding within and calling
as I sit so carefully
on my porch,
waving to neighbors
and taking tea?
why is the “someday”
I read about
never here?
when I place a note
inside my book
to keep my place-
to keep my heart from floating
above me
like a rare twisted pentecostal votive,
it burns inside
but is imminently safer
than opening
and casting my fiery breath
too far
across my pastoral scene
what if it’s too late
when I finally arrive?
without stopping
-since that would mean “thinking” would occur-
I can turn into the wind
while running
and yell as loudly as I want
until my legs hurt
and my throat is raw
then I can fall, laughing,
-fully aware of how ridiculous it may seem-
rolling in the grass
with no other goal
than letting go
in clear morning light
the valley opens for me
still heavy with sleep
we shake off night
to find hills unmarred by mist
or fences
as sun dances on
the valley richly greening
with steps marking home
What a magnificent flight,
she thought,
watching him wheel
ahead of the gathering storm.
Does he tremble inside too,
she wondered,
with the possibility
of not making it across in time?
Could he carry my words,
she hoped,
singing along with his tune
over mountains far away?
What long days,
she thought,
gone too soon
leaving her clutching just a feather.
Stop tasting that color for a minute
and listen- really listen.
Have you ever deciphered the rustling
of pine cones as they open their scales
and bellow true magic into the forest?
I think they’re teaching us
a language we’d be better off using-
without guards and with fewer adjectives.
Associative yet transient, we see
sugars below the canopies of conifers.
(If you let them linger on the tongue, these bumpy ideas will smoothly float like pollen, irritating but ultimately filling your garden.)
The Word Rummager 