Dark pink lyrics weave baskets beneath an umbrella.
What invisible hands,
What spacious choruses,
What softly glowing tendrils of words
fill the air,
swelling and shrinking like breath.
What can I put in those baskets?
Old ledger books of unceasing desire?
The sardonic cold of January?
How about a day,
soft with down and warm with good will,
chirping for a deft farmer?
Miniature Moon 