It was trembling strings,
gusty crinoline,
with a touch of spilled wine
that roused her
to an anguished harmonica,
rough burlap,
and icy breath
of a coming winter.

Rushing
so as not to leave
many spaces between
until light hits
the red flower
and all remains still
inside wind.

Not such a stretch
to see anyone beyond me,
since I always leave room
before finishing
for another to make a mark.
The story then
that’s being written
is like a patchwork
of others’ cracked images
cobbled in theory upon my heart
but together we only form a mandala
ready to blow away
the moment a storm begins.

Belatedly
(after years of clouds and chatter)
she found her mate,
pressed against sunset.
Though he wouldn’t land,
she was content
to watch him wheel across
their patch of sky.
In shadows of bridge and mountain,
they embraced,
making vague patterns of twill
in the golden hour.

On the other side of the tree,
she whispered simple wants:
to be inside his skin,
to linger on a summer morning,
and for sun to wash them away.