I never thought days could be
elastic or sticky
but I have never had a plan
for tomorrow,
though I worry a hell of a lot
about purpose
and belonging and loneliness
which seemed a purgatory
for a little girl who loved meadows.
There is no judgement among weeds.
Grown up and itchy,
the days are filled with enough minutiae
to make a rat scoff
finding mirth only when beholding art
or fitting enough trivia together
to feel learned.
I trip over my own feet sometimes.

A universe spinning at the tips
of my fingers just within reach
of today, almost caught up
to where “supposed to” and “wants to”
meet and where blooms are shaped
like fuzzy stars or sugar cookies.

Choosing a measured walk
to give my aches a breather,
wondering where the dancer in me went.

The way time curls
like trees in wind, like a song I keep singing.
I am awake and dreaming.

I like shapes
of birds in flight
and the way
skies turn with color
as daylight passes
and how shadows
fall over me and hills
in a living canvas.

Leaning against the wall, between
jars and a picture of Venice.
Not pointing or agreeing, but noticing
the earth has tilted the wrong way.

Warnings abound inside tea leaves
and missing fireflies, but somehow
it seems more “Over the Rainbow”
than Grimm Fairy Tales, so…

I don’t trust my eyes or
my understanding of fusion
but I like the word obsidian and
the idea of chaos becoming smooth.

We are buttoned up,
quietly
but our spirits are whirling about
smiling,
like lights in the darkest places
glowing
with eyes where hearts would be
watching
if only bodies held spirits the right way
tenderly
and hands could reach beyond
encompassing

like a wolf’s fur in winter
nuzzling
but more passionate like a volcano
bursting
and more intelligent like a scholar
studying

we are brought together
joyfully
in an unexpected array of colors
shining.