There are some days
where nothing moves,
no wind, no birds, no blooming,
no music. All is still.

Thoughts then become
basic, simple, connecting
breath to a blade of grass,
a dying star.

I cling to the memory
of flight, knowing
there will be days full
of dancing and sun again.

Contemplating waffles
wondering why they’re magical
and what is the ideal:
the weight, the fluffiness, the level
of toastiness, the crevices,
the ratio of syrup to butter
and what makes it ideal for you versus me;
It could be his body
or her mind
or the dream of flight
of course it could be something else
unmentionable, terrible, beautiful
but it could be something small
like the flight of a ladybug
or big like architecture of a castle
and it could just be
a waffle.

They made a mess
inside, in the quiet late night
while outside the window,
rocks held steady, stacked and layered
waiting to let go too.

Years of wind through the valley
have made the tears flow more easily,
rivulets like soft rain.

It’s a night full of hushed stars
and unspoken dreams.

Trembling with joy,
limbs and wings askew
fluttering awake
amid the cool autumn breeze,
the moth doesn’t wonder
if it’s too late
to chase the light.

Pennsylvania has thousands of runaway
minks on the loose.
Everyone online seems to want
to have the best death stories
(“look at me & how fast I can fall!”)
There is a slight chance
the comet will pause and wink at us.

There is a secret tenderness
right around lunchtime.
Nobody would guess how deep
the trench around our hearts goes.
When you know, you know.

Fireflies are missing, Ophelia is coming,
and still the Rothkos wait for me.