H2O (s) --> H2O (1)

There is this electric awareness of molecules ping pinging up from my skin to collide against the cotton and constriction of garments rendered by machines and hands distant, lean and unknown. molecules ping pinging reciting nursery rhymes to the sound of glenn miller albums spinning from a french-blue bedroom lined with irish linen and smelling of mercury and things both long forgotten and treasured long. sunlight distorts the path laid by the moon and snowy owl scat on a not-quite-spring-yet night when the wind steals the immediacy from breath and molecules leap to find their match ... measured to the three four cadence of jazz played on a hollow body guitar.
ping pinging
output
input
carrying the moontide
rolling
shifting into 

(remembered)
patterns of moonbeams on blue snow

morning finds the coffee hot and bubbling with brilliant bitterness, upon a tongue tired tired tired from want of trying trying trying but eager to try try again and grateful for these minstrels and poets and gypsies who shine their light so that i may take a bite of an apple hanging perfectly poised against my dry lips
Oh! Morning!
find my spine straighter, my heart wide-open to every mote, every nuanced collide of dust to senses awake with the sun 

ping pinging 

(π)

in this cool stillness
one hand strokes the striped pendleton blanket
skin to wool warm
while the other hand
holds my heart inside my chest
thumping in recognition of who you are
from this seat i notice the peeling paint
of the neighbors upstairs balcony
once it was a sleeping porch
now merely a peeling porch o
utlined by maples & white sky
it snowed this morning
somedays it is too much
this tilted sorrow rippling across space
to that porch
this heart
cool stillness

shadows

I am not the right person for you to talk to today as you drive east across roads that ache from the sun I am not the right person for you to talk to because I have known sad as in blue as in I don't mind if sleep folds me into forever because my dreams sing I don't mind if I succumb to the gray water rising tepid over my head and under my soul I am not the right person to talk to because I don't know what went wrong that one day in band camp above the treeline I have known sad and it is not weak it is not cowardly It is no place for the uninitiated it is replete with fullness and green and has its own set of towels and my senses run full tilt into wicker baskets of oranges and white terry cloth bath robes that place you call weak is just to the left of my sternum it smells of 1962 and my mothers perfume it is real and it swallows hours and days and desires and my hand and my heart without breaking a sweat 
I am not the right person for you to talk to today 

tacitly .....

on her back flat and still between the cool sheets staring up at the ceiling fan and the ceiling painted a grass green--her thoughts went round & round and it was like spinning round & round the way she used to do when she was young, upon her back staring up through the trees to the clouds she could not focus or stop stop & hold onto a thought for very long she watched things blur past while now and then a blinding bright light flickered like the sun thru the leaves seeing the river as luminous ribbons weaving amongst the tall golden grass and a face stoically masked with intense laughing dark eyes and he was asking her how much she was willing to risk  

(patterns of moonlight on blue snow ) 

a doe with 3 fawn wading across a creek bed her mother's legs starkly tan crossed beneath an orange sun-dress the full-length sensation of prickly grass underneath her as she lay imagining a tender miniature world there in the roots & earth--all of it floating by random & transparent the smell of  baby pristine skin and the peach-fuzz feel of her hair against her lips smells of tabu blended with cigarettes and pine how the smell of fresh mown grass & starlight enticed release a sensual surrender . . . 

these dangling stirrings would not hold still and be counted--no. the textured fabric on the palm of her hand from the sofa as she lay there letting him taste her and a surprising
bolt of thunder and lightening as it played outside the window allowing his voice back in to infiltrate her bones & fear fleeting gusts of electric sexuality his weight upon her
hand slipped underneath his thigh in his car the sudden blade of pain sharp & resolute making its home nestled in the bones & sinews of her soul
welcome pain
the kiss the taste of him a swirl of honey & heat

his hands

hands
vivid and distinct
each memory encased in gossamer yet rendered in wire and bound up with a fragile reflection that resembled the configuration & rhythm of  heart 

to smell & inhabit the earth. . . .

color my day
in the hinged amethyst of forgiveness & pause
stopping long enough to feel the grateful pull of spring
consumed by the enchantment of 

hyacinth & heliotrope
budded spikes of soul lily rising
find that place inside
that is ten years old 

possible & feathered
paused & full
color my day in captured hyacinth

2 / shoulder / transitive verb : to push or thrust, to place or bear, to assume the burden

place it here:
the weight of your saffron-ivory sorrow
upon women's bones made dense by the fire & ice of the turning
flight is made difficult by the threads of compassion's justice
counter-balance to the tendered taste of
sprouting earth & azure sky burning
structure footed in the quartz of days
rooted to the voice of you
omnipotent gods busy with hypocrisy & darkness
can't but fail to notice the buzzing of
springs reluctance to come
and
show herself raw & willing to
rise
and open once again  . . .

3 drops tallow

silence interests me not
your repose--
a backdrop to wind
and
the incessant chatter of trolls
felled prince - wake ... or sleep
{whatever}
once even i burned brilliant
now
incendental drops
golden
what do i care?
i have no stake in this
no fabled ending
3 drops tallow upon linen
destined for vellum & ink