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 

   

waxing-crescent-in-leo-moon

evening falls

carrying upon it the barest chill & trace bird song

oh fleeting dusk! 

removes us from the coarse narrow existence of our day 

allow us to 

breathe

breathe

as the chill settles about the green-growing-things 

and the scarlet bruising of my knowing heart

wait for me ...

just beyond that curious twisted tree

as i am meant to hold that hand

& tender your worries 

slow your pace 

&

wait 

for me 

as i discovered the strength & ability to wait for you 

present

      it has been days that feel like years since i've written any words 

here 

from that folded cerebellum 

to hands that drip broken tea cups full of blossoming blue skies 

and space 

endless images drip behind my eyes inked--outlined 

clouds once white become the leaves of songs 

gifted offerings of birds & plastered dreams 

what chapter is this? 

what lies here with me--within this life? 

the bark of summer trees or the borrowed aspects of others 

i've gathered to my fragile flowered cups? 

delicate presence awakening towards the sun