When death is meringue
When death is merely the
goldfinch gone elsewhere
When death is on holiday
or too booked up
I shall go down to the sea
like boats do and sail
Photo: simplyrecipes.com
I need to see every flower
pouncing from the earth
To see oceans diving off
the rocky sky
To see mountains tangled
in weeds of clouds on
the horizon
The keening earth in volcano
The end of each day pleading
that I leave this place, so I
can safely return come morn
Photo: wallup.net
Softly comes slowly
to the middle years
of this winter,
the wind brews
a cold cup of resin,
while clouds are
chipped chotchkies,
fisherkings straddle
an edge of memory
as the moon crouches
to explain
A day of dipping tree
first winter is due tonight
I would call the hour “still autumn”
and so we spend still autumn
rearranging the fire into fire
knowing the snow will come
all at once every car the same model
every tree turning to see
The way the sky makes crayons in the evening.
The way stars simply don’t mind a thing.
It’s the way the frost was Dylan just two weeks ago.
And Saturn spins at the burger joint in town.
I’ve heard cars fly in rain here.
You hear things. Ya wonder.
You repaint the bedroom like a Vegas Versailles.
You dream big. Then smaller…until that fire opal
finally drowns.
And your sky becomes paper plate and rock candy
hanging from strings.
Photo: earthsky.org
In some way.
a blending.
tree to tree.
standing/falling.
heavy with rustle.
a pause.
my feet.
my eyes.
black the trunk.
bright yellow.
my singing.
Photo: eskipaper.com
If we leave the moon to its hammock
when the wind swings to and fro,
by god, we’ll lull ourselves an evening,
for cold weather is curious work
of hanging all the apples
Photo: gumeys.com
