He doesn’t see limits here,
not with her, where he has laid his heart
and she sees light where it was dark,
her heart cracking open, the joy spilling out

It’s a place where it is warm enough
to walk near the ocean,
cool enough to need more nuzzling,
and time doesn’t stand a chance

They might frolic here
though the world would see them as too old
for such things;
love doesn’t stay inside the lines

She likes to say he is dreamy
and he laughs his twinkly laugh telling her
she is the fantasy and they both laugh
real, earthy laughs in their slice of heaven.

Just past the left turn
near the bent old tree
was a stump of another tree
cut down long ago,
whether by storm or accident or
some idea of aesthetics or spatial relations
but most people drove by
without noticing it.
Dass said something about trees
teaching us how to accept ourselves
and then Darwin stepped in
to bemoan our many blunders
and they’re both right.
We are all beautiful screwups.
Twisted like trees. Aching for sun.
Thirsty. All different shapes,
some more useful than pretty.
Once we learn to survive wind, we sway.

The first flush lingers
like an unrepentant morning fog,
draping across hills and branches
devoid of rustling leaves, sleepy
as they wave in the breeze.

We are sleepy too, waking
with a flat view of a rolling landscape
as it curls around fading dreams.

There are constant discoveries
with an open heart: flowers in winter,
new spices at dinner, old dance steps
with willing bodies.

A stretch and a pull towards light,
towards where you are.

Inside a small pocket
of a parking lot
on a hill just outside town,
there is a small
yet encompassing dance.
To say hips are involved
belies what constitutes
limits between the ears.
There is no real music,
that is true.
There is nobody to see
the intricate steps or notice
a soul-shifting smile.
The earth only shifts a little.
But there is a shift, maybe like
that of a bird tilting its wings
against the wind or maybe
a hippo losing itself to
weightlessness in water.
But it happens most days
around lunchtime
and it is glorious.

Climbing on the fence
looking up, up and seeing
some murky stuff hanging about
the stars or maybe they’re just
hiding. I get that. The need
to disappear after burning up
whatever was left
after the great stuff
was named. I have a name
too but it’s as forgettable
as whatever I do in my days.
I like to cling to the fence
at night and sing loudly
whatever comes to mind,
as the great stuff rolls through me
and I’m left with a murky sky,
a sore throat, and a place I’ve made
by letting go in a big howl.