Once the sun has gone,
trees break free
of their static shapes
and make all sorts
of dynamic twists
in the moonlight.
Frogs sing hymns
to their circles of
flowers as they can,
knowing their roots
swim with lost tails.
Sleepy flowers sway
in breezes, taking the night
from petal to petal
without reaching,
a dance of quiet delight,
all lovers and dreamers
embracing in shadow.

I don’t recall a single supermoon
as a kid; they were all magical,
even without labels
or a rudimentary understanding
of cycles or space.

I remember being given a notebook
and told to write my thoughts
and that they could maybe rhyme, or not.
I was 7 and the world opened up.

I remember my dad with a ladder
late at night telling us to scramble
on the roof to watch a comet.
It was beautiful and I didn’t understand.

Somehow stars and words
are tied up in my mind
as magical yet reachable;
I can touch if I want or just look
and it doesn’t have to make sense.

can we forget about measurements,
be seahorses as they say good morning,
morphing beasts playing with a universe
or maybe just driving through Montana

let’s follow the sun through the city
and along the edge of the valley
until we reach the edge of fiction
where all the truths blur into One

I love you, I whisper over and over
and a face pools out of clouds
and a storm fills the body
as we dance across a prairie

Something resembling
the old bus station
with little TVs on the chairs
and a headline warning
about too much zen behavior
(or maybe it was the opposite;
reading upside down is funny).
Lots of yellow and orange
and a speckled floor. Blue signs
mimicking a forgotten sky.
Busy feet criss-crossing to nowhere.
I thought by middle age
I would be more purposeful,
know where to go.
But a lack of direction and no sense
of place finds me stuck in the terminal,
switching channels now and again,
clinging to little flickers of movement.