Silly stillborn idea!
Though you died years ago
I still see you marching to town,
a paint roller in one hand and dynamite in the other.
My my smell that minute!
Would you like a jar of my lightning preserves?
Fruit punch flavor!
In town the frost freezes the hollers
of the conceptual townspeople.
Shredded shards of shattered wishes strewn everywhere.
The pond is always in my horizon,
solitude fishing on the bank.
I will Stitch my want together again.
Let my hands go where my heart wants.
For too long my essence has been bottled.
The evening is blue with my husband,
and I snuggle moisturized and my oaken bed.
Down the cool hall,
my daughter drowses and dreams in a bed of leaves.
She rolls.
It crackles.
My smile gets 10 spacious degrees warmer.
My hair beams,
my feet curl,
scrolls of hieroglyphic years.
A horse canters through my rainy cumulative vernacular.
Thank You rides freely through my sentences.
Stars numbered and categorized,
burn above my words.
Insolent bluebells scoff at the very concept of love.
Love and lore lisping away in the lane.
Love Shy,
Love fallen timber in my woods,
Love school bus full of finger painting children.
In the field of flowers,
a fire encroaches.
The butterflies know which way is up,
hover above the heat.
Feral freedom is rummaging through my trash
for my day-old bread.
He has been starved for years now,
collecting scraps from the willing and the brave.
Notice he is him, and compatible with me.
On my back porch, wasps hunting heaven.
A hand drips down from above,
brings him home.
On the fringe of language,
patterns funnel through the eyes.
The tongue, rendered mute,
begins to sleep.
And you,
an ornament in the great chasm
between life and soul,
clasp my hand.
A pain in my third arm
searing.
Always reaching for the
blue broken lightbulb.
In a house of gold a child asks,
Why does winter love me so hard?
Origami journal,
record my private dimension
like a flag over the sparkling tundra.
Winter is back again,
sitting on my porch swing biting his nails.
The seasons are such nervous people.
I cannot invite him inside.
I have been housing summer and the two don’t get along.
He sneezes and hail falls on me.
The afternoon latches and lunches
on my milky breasts.
My chest a shelf that weighty demons sit on.
Outside in the rocky yard Good Health and Old Age fight.
My eyesight is incredibly blue
and the world is incredibly pink,
so my life is biased toward purple.
I am as executable and cuddly as a queen.
The river is dry.
No baby boys float in baskets among the reeds.
My body floats off to sleep,
my mind sinks into self,
diving deeper and deeper to the mulberry core.
Miniature Moon 