sweeping past anything blue,
training my eye to see shadow
dare I count steps
to reach beyond the small point
on the horizon
marking the end of all I know

I don’t know what “constant” is
– I have no context
for anything that remains

how gently did we hold
the wind before it shook
and left us laughing
at our folly
– there is no constant
where shadows crawl
and there is still the unknown

how is the heart
of a dark continent
pounding within and calling
as I sit so carefully
on my porch,
waving to neighbors
and taking tea?

why is the “someday”
I read about
never here?

when I place a note
inside my book
to keep my place-
to keep my heart from floating
above me
like a rare twisted pentecostal votive,
it burns inside
but is imminently safer
than opening
and casting my fiery breath
too far
across my pastoral scene

what if it’s too late
when I finally arrive?

What a magnificent flight,
she thought,
watching him wheel
ahead of the gathering storm.
Does he tremble inside too,
she wondered,
with the possibility
of not making it across in time?

Could he carry my words,
she hoped,
singing along with his tune
over mountains far away?
What long days,
she thought,
gone too soon
leaving her clutching just a feather.

Stop tasting that color for a minute
and listen- really listen.

Have you ever deciphered the rustling
of pine cones as they open their scales
and bellow true magic into the forest?
I think they’re teaching us
a language we’d be better off using-
without guards and with fewer adjectives.
Associative yet transient, we see
sugars below the canopies of conifers.

(If you let them linger on the tongue, these bumpy ideas will smoothly float like pollen, irritating but ultimately filling your garden.)