after the weary comes

i write yellow
butter-canary light
upon the page white
kestrel perched upon a branch
shielded from the rain
watchful dawn's sigh
algorithim why
jesses dangling
un-held
bells still
checkered daffodil
yellow morning flight 

cooling

Come

turn me younger

paint the inside of

my mouth with ink clementines & diamonds

drip sunshine blonde upon these lips 

come

sit it down

in morning's sweet marigold mist 

viola velvet sorrow'd taste 

come 

turn me inside out 

abide beside me fluid and awake 

allow the cut of joy's remembrance 

to close the wound 

halt the spin 

staunch the blood 

turn 

me 

to 

June 

may basket

it comes as a shock

this soft beating pink heart

pansy petaled 

fragility inclined 

stark contrast to rain 

tender unfurling 

subject to pain 

spring's soil sentinel

perked awake  

turned towards 

a 

hidden sun 

in day's gloaming break

while listening to a poet

I thought I lost this one,
somewhere between 120 degrees and its cooling . . .
rising from the bath it slipped on the white tile
and
lost itself during the thunderstorm
drifting suddenly back
to sit in the palm of my hand
quivering
trembling with
the question:
is the poem made better by tucking it alongside a life
to wait
to whiskey age
simmering
tempering
is this how real poetry is made?
honed
crafted
over time 

taken out--tinkered with
gnawed
and
mulled over
or
is it drop cut word-precise onto a folded napkin
found in your pocket
while sitting in a lime & stone time-traveled church
listening to Ted Kooser speak
hours before the thunder comes