Landlocked
and out of hibernation
remembering
licking roots
along the river’s edge
where stone
met a rush of water
just before
the squawk of a kestrel
heralded
high time to move.
love in the pines
pretending
the beautifully
decorated
mushroom
is meant
for me
I whisper
to a pinecone
“do you see that?”
Odd Angle
A dozen gestures
of his eyebrows and hands
working in concert
with a cool and detached tone,
drawing me in with science;
more lines on his forehead
making exceptions to standards
he sets but ignores
– and I’ve memorized each one.
Learning is an accidental affair.
Too many voices
not my own
and I still follow
the odd angle
almost blindly
like a flower turning to sun.
Feathers of the same root
A loose shoelace
and a careening cuff on jeans;
the road seems to turn fluid.
I realize
the treacherous slide
of looking back-
even dirty,
there’s comfort in set equations.
He last wrote with me in mind
months ago
and I discovered it was just an echo
of her, still her,
which made me feel
like a feather plucked
before its time.
And he is worried about time.
But I am floating
just like he is
and it’s all the same now
in mid-air,
with only sky and wind
to hear the tales
and wonder at the silliness
of flesh and synapses.
Isolated
In the white place,
I swept up my own bones
and sang what I recalled
from the womb.
It wasn’t technicolor
and it was’t syncopated,
but it was a fine respite.
The Word Rummager 