If it’s only an edge of a star,
how long can we possibly hang on
until we spin out
like a Spirograph-
a work of art
comprised of flailing limbs
and flowing breath,
willing our bodies to mark something eternal
before we forget where we were?

Let the sun sleep
and the moon stare-
the blue-black night air
might bear us a bit longer.

They pass the days peaceably,
marking the sun as it shifts the horizon.
They rarely see truth as it is shielded
in grand schemes and small dreams.

He would not see her broken,
though a crack there may be.
She would have him hold her,
keeping the pieces together.

What is tomorrow,
when today is better than yesterday?
What are birdsongs and treesongs
if not hymns to nature’s time?

you’ve slept so long
we’ve become something else
not bound by treasured verse
tucked inside drawer sachets

untended and subliminal
this is a new sunrise

forests have their own religion
footfalls find all ground hallowed,
only a few stop
to feel the low hum
beneath
while others charge forward
finding new places to plunder
and still,
there are unending yearnings
for father’s wisdom and mother’s embrace

plotting courses with foreign language
we connect the main points
but miss so much scenery

when noone is looking
we spin as fast as we can
(when did that become a secret?)

broken scenes tucked in pockets
can only be cast on a wind leading away-
back to the beginning,
light steps
and quiet watch
crack the heart
to let earth seep in again,
no clothed shame in truth
when we step as lightly,
listening to wise laughter of twigs

breathing into my scarf
stepping over cracked sidewalks
that have heaved in the cold
all is icy clear and beautiful ahead

it’s only glancing back
over my shoulder
that hurts
because I am not afraid
of what I have not yet touched