Lamplight flickers,

teasing the shadows.

The clock chimes 25 times underneath the bed.

Dust hunts my memories.

My shoes abuse me.

I am writing my dissertation on dessert,

in song.

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.

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.