the great green spine

wove through milky afternoons

spreading slowly

with creeping things

keeping time without a sound

but with feelers

a tender reach

stirring heavy summer air

basking in green

The explosion

was the gift

but it was so quiet,

nobody noticed.

Wind rolled over hills

and sun left shadows

resembling cypresses;

I felt a tingle

like third kisses

(when we knew what we were doing)

making me believe

what’s in my head

is fighting to get out

but an ever-present weight

spilled from my heart onto the road

and I passed right through

like a summer storm,

fast and hard.

Wings beat somewhere across the state

and my valley was overcome

by unholy winds

and scathing showers;

before sundown,

the dragonfly was lost

in the parking lot of the big box store

and I could only laugh

at the mechanics of worry.

I’m having granola at my desk.

The sun is shining on the other side

of concrete and brick and glass.

I’m in a file room. There’s dust,

but it’s not like the honest happy dust

of manual labor, but rather the sad

lethargic dust of forgotten playground

daydreams. I had raisins earlier.

They reminded me of sun from when

I was about seven and disheveled

in my poncho and sandals.

I had no idea I’d be expected to conform

or that I’d always fall short.

Daydreams at seven taste too sweet at 47.

I adjust my scarf and say thank you

to the woman who says she likes my hair.

She says, “how brave” and I cringe

because the grey is not my idea of valor.

I feel bravest when I step out of bed

and face a day I wouldn’t have chosen

but it’s mine and it’s ok because

I’m still disheveled and like sweet dreams.