so as not to leave
many spaces between
until light hits
the red flower
and all remains still
inside wind.

Only a mandala

Not such a stretch
to see anyone beyond me,
since I always leave room
before finishing
for another to make a mark.
The story then
that’s being written
is like a patchwork
of others’ cracked images
cobbled in theory upon my heart
but together we only form a mandala
ready to blow away
the moment a storm begins.

The golden hour

(after years of clouds and chatter)
she found her mate,
pressed against sunset.
Though he wouldn’t land,
she was content
to watch him wheel across
their patch of sky.
In shadows of bridge and mountain,
they embraced,
making vague patterns of twill
in the golden hour.

9 o’clock

On the other side of the tree,
she whispered simple wants:
to be inside his skin,
to linger on a summer morning,
and for sun to wash them away.

Seduction with a bowtie

He put on his tie
and showed her a home-glow
at the end of a yellowy path-
how could she have missed it,
some wondered

but there were reasons
regarding Fiji mermaids
and flim-flammery,
the likes of which hadn’t been seen
since the gold still held sway

over a cold summer day
that broke after the big storm
like the best spun sugar
in a child’s greedy hands,
sticky and licked clean.