canvas

left to my own devices ...
i become rocked by the rhythm of highways folded inside out
i stand upon the cusp of you

and drink hummingbirds of delight 

swaying to the music that drips down from that indigo dome

regret lies broken & undefined upon your floor

left to my own devices ....
i wrap your warm gypsy hand about my heart
and dance to the
memory of fire
startled by the coldness piercing this night
i keep the vigil that is loving you

left to my own devices ....
i will sweep my naked being across this palette of blooms
and paint you with lemon verbena, ginger & an abiding whimsy 

knowing that it brings out both the merriment & the sorrow of your eyes

and

i alone will remain

left to my own devices ....
the patterns of people moving inside the lines numbs one 
almost
numbs one to the thrumming pain of the solitary stone
left in the frigid rushing river of this so called life
struggling against something unknown & un-named
cold

yet brilliant
dormant 

yet beating

smooth 

yet jagged
tame ... but not

mine
always
borrowed for a time into these small trembling hands
writing reading waiting ,,, writing reading waiting
is it suppose to be like this 
does everyone know truth  

left to my own devices ..
i would wear gossamer white gowns of lined-dried cotton
crisp & smelling of april
indistinguishable from the cirrus clouds of that day
that day
we broke the table
playing at passion & need & all things timeless & ours 

.... remember? surrender?

left to my own devices ....
i
would
remain ....
bold 
and wanting