Every sky I see, pulls my heart.
It's a perfect poem, with all of it's stray marks.
It's all these little details, make me ache,
as in a dream I never want to wake.
Causes me to wish I could lay down,
watch the clouds as they dance in tune with sound.
Every movement causes such a beautiful mess;
nothing I'd ever add could make it more or less.
Sometimes I test the souls that are nearby,
Look, a small invitation to see the sky.
Usually confusion says, Okay?
I don't see anything extraordinary today.
No birds, no planes, no faraway storms,
the only thing I see, is clouds for sure.
I never say words, because I know it's true,
I could never make them Love it like I do.

Throwing stones at the prickling green
of cacti staring at our dangling toes,
we enter and touch on a tender spot,
and for once forget the irritating sharpness
of our last dance together.
        Focusing attention to our aim,
we allow the delicate swords of our targets to captivate
our eyes away from stinging cheeks,
and permit the abrupt arching of our arms to lessen
the biting rawness of the swelling sun.
       Tired winter plays hide and seek,
and we take our time to count
each and every c l i n g i n g  drop of water and light.
I stop short--as I refuse to disturb
                                                                       a single pebble,
teetering against the slightest part of a thorn,
and against every odd;
    
gravity embraces it to stay.

"The trees have already begun to senesce"
my professor says, as she indicates
the oak whose leaves have been colored to dirt.
And a chord is struck in me,
for without her definition
I know what it is to senesce.
This is what it is to shed my leaves,
to watch their fingers wither and release
my autumn comes crisp
and crunches under rubber soles,
it feels like a barren womb.
All I give birth to is empty spaces
between fingers of dusk and
silhouettes of dark against light.
Crookedness is my legacy, and exposure is my blight.
And yet if I am like those dying branches
then I too must come awake again.
To senesce is to die, yet only for a time
spring is ahead, and she is waiting.
And I will follow,
follow that thought like deer prints in the snow,
like the sparrow's straining song,
like green blades lifting their arms,
like the smell of the earth swallowing the rain,
like there is a time when death will not call my name so sweetly
that I choose the dream over waking.
That I too will shed my ice
and become heavy with the weight
of fragrant flowers.