pretending
the beautifully
decorated
mushroom
is meant
for me

I whisper
to a pinecone
“do you see that?”

A loose shoelace
and a careening cuff on jeans;
the road seems to turn fluid.
I realize
the treacherous slide
of looking back-
even dirty,
there’s comfort in set equations.

He last wrote with me in mind
months ago
and I discovered it was just an echo
of her, still her,
which made me feel
like a feather plucked
before its time.
And he is worried about time.

But I am floating
just like he is
and it’s all the same now
in mid-air,
with only sky and wind
to hear the tales
and wonder at the silliness
of flesh and synapses.

Watching from near the gate,
counting leaves from the tree limb
that hangs over the honeysuckle.
Being seven,
in all its dusty playground glory.
Sweet fleeting recess
with strangers
that might be friends
once they overlook my odd name
and different accent.
Holding the sweater sleeve
up to my nose, inhaling
mother’s lingering Jean Naté
and Virginia Slims.
Shifting feet over acorns and pebbles,
remembering a river
I hadn’t seen yet
but knew was there waiting.
Wondering at how time stretched
to lose track of home
even though I never forgot to imagine
each room as it would be.

quietly letting the date close in
when edges show tattered remnants
thinking it has no effect
so many years later
but these things resonate
and remain clear
not faded like a photograph
but vivid in a dastardly mind’s eye
horror and sunlight
gladiolas and grave sites
the scent of midsummer’s decay
swiftly along the river
echoing in a morning bird’s call

when sky was young
we danced on tender grass
when stars grew dim
we made love til sun brushed by

following shadows far into a new day

if you were here
I know just how you’d taste
if I were there
the trees would sing our song

bending to touch a love story

when we but listen
breezes carry our names
when we look again
all we are is spelled out in the ground

growing love in earth’s embrace