the love of a meadow
sprinkled with prickles
and fancy colors

does the horse see
the full scope of a rainbow
or just a renewable buffet

a galaxy of petals
spelling out a name
one that only wind can hear

love in the time of restraint
means never finishing
because there is no end

plucking an idea from the air
because summer is heavy
with color and fruit

I swiveled my hips below the table
as I guess you do too
when no one is looking,
keeping my own beat
to a song blaring into morning.
I don’t know if anyone else hears it
but that is not my concern.
I don’t know how I keep going
some days, only that it feels
like an imperative, like I’m being pushed
by unseen forces to turn and turn
and turn again, like the seasons
beneath the sun. Hot, curious, silly, sick,
it’s all there in the beat, in my hips.

The morning had a heartbeat
and the sky had ribs
made of clouds and hawks.

There were no neon signs
but there was water on a leaf
pointing the truest north.

Plans for anything beyond
the next breath were not needed;
a sigh of relief was quiet thunder.

It’s dark and crickets are the only sound
coming through the open windows.
A light breeze pushes curtains
so that a sliver of starlight seeps in.

The lush hills of the canyon and
sun warming my skin are but memories
when all is covered in night.

I don’t speak much of these moments,
solitary and sparkling,
because some of the best things
are felt and left unspoken.

It feels oddly familiar.
A cool breeze on warm skin.
Spring, no matter what the season.
But removed a bit, like rain on the window.
(Which side is the wrong side?)

It feels new somehow, every day.
The same path, but marked with
new growth, fresh blooms.
I am helpless in almost every way.
I would not change any of it.

It feels inevitable.
A gasp unbidden after holding
my breath far too long.