My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

Stand me still in swaying grass
on the crest of a smooth esker.
Numb my ears to synthetic noise
so I can embrace the earthly chorus;
Green blades clashing swordlike.
The creak of trees, rooted in the battle.
The flip and twist of a passing bluebottle;
Awkward and disorientated.
Let me breathe deep the same wind
that lends herself to these instruments.
Let me hear the crackle of sun on skin;
The sound of hair electrified,
The thud of chemicals leaping across synapses.

Let me feel truly alive.

Where do you take me, night creature?
What alterations do you stitch
and weave into my conscience
when I teeter along your tightrope?
By day, I am but a slip away
from your labyrinth of fable and yarn.
By night, I navigate the pathways
of your alternate universe.
I breath deep and wait
to know your interpretation
of the fine print omitted in daylight.
Where do you take me,  sleep?