I like shapes
of birds in flight
and the way
skies turn with color
as daylight passes
and how shadows
fall over me and hills
in a living canvas.

Leaning against the wall, between
jars and a picture of Venice.
Not pointing or agreeing, but noticing
the earth has tilted the wrong way.

Warnings abound inside tea leaves
and missing fireflies, but somehow
it seems more “Over the Rainbow”
than Grimm Fairy Tales, so…

I don’t trust my eyes or
my understanding of fusion
but I like the word obsidian and
the idea of chaos becoming smooth.

We are buttoned up,
quietly
but our spirits are whirling about
smiling,
like lights in the darkest places
glowing
with eyes where hearts would be
watching
if only bodies held spirits the right way
tenderly
and hands could reach beyond
encompassing

like a wolf’s fur in winter
nuzzling
but more passionate like a volcano
bursting
and more intelligent like a scholar
studying

we are brought together
joyfully
in an unexpected array of colors
shining.

Flowers with so many petals
a laugh lasting 10 seconds
navy blue and red
kisses hello and goodbye.

Flossing and changing oil
ignoring irony and pessimism
keeping an umbrella close
saying thank you often.

Willing a big wave onward
to take away the minutiae
watching the moon every night
tracing quiet paths to glory.

Toasting waffles while tea brews
cotton and moss and sun
driving and praying devotions
waving sadness in and then away.

Scattered memories
of waders and birds of prey
with different views
of above and below.

I forget about seasons
as I am surrounded
by decaying books
and cups of tea

but they say the sweetness
of newly cut grass
is actually the scent of death
-and none of us are far behind.

I don’t know
what kind of tree I’d be
shedding needles or leaves,
but I know I’d rustle.