It’s a kind of magic

I don’t recall a single supermoon
as a kid; they were all magical,
even without labels
or a rudimentary understanding
of cycles or space.

I remember being given a notebook
and told to write my thoughts
and that they could maybe rhyme, or not.
I was 7 and the world opened up.

I remember my dad with a ladder
late at night telling us to scramble
on the roof to watch a comet.
It was beautiful and I didn’t understand.

Somehow stars and words
are tied up in my mind
as magical yet reachable;
I can touch if I want or just look
and it doesn’t have to make sense.

I went someplace

for a new view and some fresh air

and found tips for survival

among ferns, dappled sun,

and quiet flight of dragonflies

just some nebula

can we forget about measurements,
be seahorses as they say good morning,
morphing beasts playing with a universe
or maybe just driving through Montana

let’s follow the sun through the city
and along the edge of the valley
until we reach the edge of fiction
where all the truths blur into One

I love you, I whisper over and over
and a face pools out of clouds
and a storm fills the body
as we dance across a prairie

Greyhound

Something resembling
the old bus station
with little TVs on the chairs
and a headline warning
about too much zen behavior
(or maybe it was the opposite;
reading upside down is funny).
Lots of yellow and orange
and a speckled floor. Blue signs
mimicking a forgotten sky.
Busy feet criss-crossing to nowhere.
I thought by middle age
I would be more purposeful,
know where to go.
But a lack of direction and no sense
of place finds me stuck in the terminal,
switching channels now and again,
clinging to little flickers of movement.

Traces

He wooed her with kisses,
words of perversion, and looks of warmth.
He held her aloft and would not relent
in his optimism.
Her thoughts were of meadows and
dark alleys, each with its own terrors
and comforts.
She said, “love is a renewable resource”
when they declared their feelings,
sure he would understand
the concept of her eternity
in a world full of temporary tattoos
and drive-through funerals.
He said he loved her too, more than
rain or sun or any weather phenomenon.
True love is like that. Force beyond nature.
After the storm, tread lightly
for there are always traces
of something left behind.