you sing me songs of february summer
and i laugh at the absurdity
because
nothing makes sense anymore
and everything
is a tune
from those long ago years
when we believed
in certainty
still
i smile and i dance
at words
spilled from
wist and sunshine
so ripe with yesterday’s
short season of naiveté
when we were young
and you were golden
and i
was just a rose
.
.
.
and we swam circles around each other
like shark or sunfish or skittering
pond skaters
because
neither one of us
heard ophelia singing
and what did it matter
so deep in the forest
of upside down
neverland
sky
.
.
.
I found another rock the day you planned to leave me, white granite, sharp-edged, palm-sized, set down right in the center of my path like a gift or an offering or a message.
It felt just right in my hand, too, as if it had lived there once, forever, and then been lost. Later, I buried it beneath the pine in the corner of the yard, embedded in a sea of needles.
And even though it was a rock, it took root and grew beneath the surface, became a boulder. I know, because I tried to dig it up once, I spent a day on my knees with a pick and a spade until finally, at dusk, I gave up and filled it all back in, tamping down and spreading smooth the bed of my discomfort.
I slept beneath the stars that night, too tired to move and too silent to care, refusing to listen. The sky whispered lies and the stars held their arms up high like a prayer or a promise or a salutation.
I kept my cheek pressed to the earth, kissing gravity in gratitude for holding me in place, the rock beneath me still warm from the sun of exposure.
In the morning I went inside, boiled water for tea and sat in the chair by the window, already forgetting about rocks and love and heartache, my head filled with dark sparkling stories.
.
.
.
thorn of light
thorn of bright
trapped
in the call
of a prussian
blue night
i am gypsy
i am queen
to the hounds
of hope unseen
slipping silent
racing whole
through a screen
of web retold
counting distance
and return
with an abacus
of learn
blood roses
blooming tight
on the skin
of my lost flight
.
.
.
and it’s the magic of twilight that draws me outside, down the hill to a swamp filled with peepers. some nights the sound roars through the darkness, and on those nights, it’s not that i can’t sleep, it’s just that i don’t want to. my primal memory wants to lie outside and count the starts into numbers too large to carry. my feet refuse to forget the sensation of walking. nothing is clear in the darkness, but everything shines, and until you’ve let the moon find your shadow, you’ve never once stood in real light. there are secrets out here, everywhere. the trees are always whispering. i want to walk into the forest and do nothing but listen. that’s where all the answers are, but we’ve forgotten how to hear them. lightning reminds us, but only for a moment. and thunder makes us forget yet again. i want to wash my hair in the rain and leaves my toes caked with mud. i want to run through the color of midnight.
.
.
.
years ago
i planted two poplar trees
side by side
out front
in the corner of the yard
and one grew taller than the other
larger
thicker
stronger
and i feel like that’s probably
a metaphor for something
or at least it should be
but all i see are trees
and words about trees
stamped across the sky
in a tangle
of branches
all the meaning i prescribe
comes from within
me
or the trees
and what i choose to name
the one on the left
my cat
can zoom straight up the trunk
leaving scratches
and cheshire grin
in a weathered trunk
time map
but i like to sit
beneath the canopy
and listen
to stories
told by dancing
flicker leaves
in the shade
of yesterday’s
summer
.
.
.
to a party
of her own making
storied twice
and added never
confetti birds and
sun balloon
frosted ribbon
and dancing bear
carried home in the fold
of ripe chance
.
.
.
.
a tunnel of words
brambled tight and bunched pretty
blocking the straight line
shortest path
and isn’t that always the way
flight holding up
a mirror
of freedom
while the simple branch
extended as an offering
of comfort
goes unnoticed
these wings
always itching to soar
defying the gravity
of cracked calloused
talon
weaving labyrinth and lace
into a ripe ruffled tapestry
of circuitous
reflection
.
.
.
the path is predetermined by the seed and the soil
and climate’s complete lack of benevolence
a straight line leads only to infinity
and so we are faced with sharp corners
zigs that zag through uncut forest
fallow field
the vagary of mountain
and you can look for the signs
proof of possibility
your only reward for getting it right
but just this morning
one lone leaf was pointing at orion
and tomorrow
it will tumble
through wet sky
.
.
.
