I don’t ask for much

because I can barely carry the things

I already have

and even if I lost everything,

I’d still have the burden

of trying to describe

why colors of the sky are enough.

I fear the answer is deep inside

a finger-string game

and that we’ve been bamboozled

by misdirection

of naughty birds

who show us rings and found words

so we’re carried away

into a beautiful and deadly chaos.

I think we forgot who we are.

Would you still hear me 

in the quiet woods of night 

when it seems empty on top 

but there’s scurrying beneath? 

I like to sing about green things 

like a spiraling embrace in fog. 

When it gets very cold, 

I imagine being suspended 

like a frog in an icy pond, 

longing to leap and love 

in a welcoming sun. 

But today, the woods are empty 

and winter is upon us 

(can you hear me?).

It’s hard to tell when sadness is allowed 

when buildings impede sunshine 

on railroad tracks below 

but travelers are just happy to be moving. 

It reminds me of searching for lyrics 

on a cassette insert and finding 

I rather liked my mistakes better. 

We danced to many mistakes 

to the tune of our frantic hearts. 

He had a beautiful analogy about dancing 

with me being like shuffling with cattle. 

Moo, I say, smiling and wiggling.

Half removed, half-heartedly 

poking through underbrush of the day, 

wondering if the best has passed 

with barely a mention 

and why can’t we turn around 

when the way seems blocked. 

It hurts like sweat on a jagged wound 

when you don’t know if healing will come. 

It’s all part of the same story 

and I’ve dog-eared some passages 

but can’t recall where I’ve left the book.