when all is quiet in late winter

can i not find the words or the woman 

who writes under winter stars? 

barren lies the fields cold the comfort 

no tea served to crows or crocus 

no pause under bare white birch 

as the wind whips up space & forgiveness 

come sun 

come waken the reach the sugarcane wildness 

come woman 

come words 

reach me here wrapped in these melancholy drifts

come.... 

#6698FF

we phoenix a million times
rising rising to face the blue
a blue unnamed by those that name
winds tempered by structures both
real & imagined
matters not this rising
matters not this wind
matters not this obstacle

only the blue 

the wren

of this autumn morning standing
tethered
to ten thousand things
of water & weight
the wren stands feathered
upon the birch silver--shimmering in
its morning waking
waiting upon the wind
waiting upon the sun
to shift its roots to winter's edge
breathing upon the light of this day

waiting on the wind

vokzal

What is it that attracts?
that pulling together of fragments:
moths to flame
hands to hearts
ink to page 
polarized metal
butter to knives 
skin to skin
eyes to the garden of possibility 
tetthered 
to 
aubergine rye-whiskey dreams
the torn edges of leather coats
and
childhood gardens
a myriad of particles collide in recogniton 
something shared 
something desired 
gestures seem innocous
thrown down as carmine on leaves 
and borealis wounds 
a minutiae of fluttered moments hanging breathless
the plethora of pleasure gleamed in the capture 
intellect to intention 
light to shadow
close to open 
wings to weather 

magnectic north 
lies in the curve 
of you 

four thirty-nine

what is it to be beloved?
pocketed at ten 'til four on an afternoon in late august
pocketed
against a small stone picked up
from sidewalk's sunlit cracks
outside it smells of fresh mown grass
and a promised rain
outside

what is it to be beloved?
held as a bluejay feather found
and lost and found again
held so as to not bend the vane
hollow shaft the color of aged bones in a dream

what is it to be beloved?
rolled out onto the pine table as clay to be molded
smoothed and pressed by a vision only seen by
one
unveiled bit by love-resilient bit
until form becomes space becomes
sun
stone
crack
rain
feather found dream
by one
unveiled
love
--beloved--

solstice

larked skipped
purple thistle blade
grass sworn
soil rain lemonade

tangerine pillows
pierced pony neigh
white bark swallow
thunder star-way

loves felted walnut
sweet cherry song
snow echoes holding
suns waiting arms 

out of the east it comes . . .(sounding like a rolling deep quiet--or a meadowlark)

There is a certain summer wind

that blows in

Nebraska 

balm of river & prairie  

sun rewinding self to young 

a summer wind

of 

rolled-down 

windows & strawberry boone’s farm wine 

midnight drives 

and

bike rides
high as 

fireflies 

legion ball & copper-tone sun on the wall 

deep purple nights driving the ones 

crickets 

shallow river

sandbars & love 

so much held in this certain summer wind