is lonely here , quiet
Windows of sunlight feed me ...
Waiting on this cold pink-marbled bench for a sign
And even though you can't see it - it is snowing
It always snows here
It can rain but that happens most often in the morning
Snowing softly in this captured glen of birch & pine
A slow, dropping sparkle of designed brilliance
A meadowlark sings , maybe a meadowlark is always singing
My feet grow restless as they tap & play in the foliage
Should I play a pennywhistle while I wait, or sketch the inside of your heart ?
Definitely should take up smoking, or knitting, or model airplane building.
I could build a plane & fly away to the last place where i picked up your scent
Rich cherry-earth, honeyed & mine.
Hmm . .
That is cutting too close. Too close to the burn, the pinch, the punch that is the want of you .. It resides in a scarlet-arched line from the base of my throat, to my groin and travels out in a spiraling crescent moon
to blossom-explode upon
this night marrying to star-shine & nightingales
That is cutting to close
Just wait ... Here .
In September's snow ...