Unlocked.
Staring at the underside
of nimbus clouds,
watching for a sliver of light
of rain of a new voice
to sing an old hymn
Reaching without moving
beneath dazzling stars
wishing to hold onto
the same quiet relief
of night through the day
We can call our savior
whatever we like
because labels are irrelevant
and anything we make
is within reason.
Dusky hues settle
pulled by wings of starlings
across a turbulent sky
beyond the realm of reason
or need to ask why;
pulled by wings of starlings
dreams rise as night sings.
Scooped out a ladybug from my car
and set it free on a spring breeze
I am waiting
to be scooped up too
to float on a breeze
with no concern for “up” or “down”
imagining wings
with no compass
no anchors
no star guides
maybe a moon
maybe some sun shadows
because I would wait
to see what shapes form
from midday steps beneath midlife clouds
puffing along, morphing
from soft bunnies
to Vulcan nerve pinches
Whales don’t weep on land
but we do and it’s awful
and a little funny
and so simian in its futility
knocking together nuts
to get a little reward
pressing on screens
for a little relief
the blind trying to decipher
a laugh from a cry
the deaf seeing clouds
with no shadow
I am waiting for rain
to wash the dirt from the garden
to know a fresh new day
in old skin
storm clouds being as good as any
to direct our play
Veering very close to the fountain
enough for my toes to get wet
I am waiting to hear
if he’s sick or if she’s happy
and if Friday is a New Day or
just a nonsense day with a title
because I would wait
for labels to fade
before I decide
if it’s worth the effort
to walk around the fountain
again and make the steps count
or to just sit
quietly with shadows
of sun giving way to moon.
Petals get the glory.
Like the power ballad hammering out a love song.
Roots are heavy with symbolism swagger.
A chorus breaks hearts with its nonrhyming.
Stems are lithe and acrobatic.
Cadence is less important with no one listening.
But the story is in the leaves,
the veins, the tissues, the stomata.
The reach and the fall are the same story.
Glad it’s green
it’s been so long, almost too long
except we don’t tell time in Forever
whatever’s planted will grow
just not always the way you think
twisted, and awkward besides
so many reels with trains
the thrill of going is fresh
but there’s always an end to the track
a bud between rails
waving but not wavering
as a season presses into another
The Word Rummager 