Hot, tempered glass shakes peeling paint from
the paneled siding of our house.
Flecks of muted blue drift softly away,
some slipping between cracks in our deck.
My mother grabs and hurls another cup,
Framed neatly in the kitchen window,
she's a furious vision in floral and sweat.

Dew seeps through my jeans,  
and a sweet chill runs up the back of my knees,
leaving my fingers tingling.
I knot and unknot strands of grass.
I see her anger and I let the birds dub kinder words.
Turning my eyes directly to the sun,
I wait for thoughts to burn to ash.

I sit outside and hide in the open air,
loving the quiet moments between the shush-
ing of the trees and the swollen beats of my heart.  
Such small perfections we all passively observe.
The chatter of windblown petals, the noise
a moving snail makes; they comfort me today.
Tomorrow it’s our big, obnoxious chimes.

O Lovely Lady, tell me what’s thy sign?
I swear to thee I’ve seen thy face before,
Most truthfully I say my heart is thine.

Thou must be badly bruised,oh tasty one,
To fall from heaven to the floor.
O Aching Angel, tell me what’s thy sign?

If the alphabet t’were mine to rearrange,
U and I would be its core.
Most happily I say my heart is thine.

Thy father must have been a baker fine,
For thy buns have me wishing more.
O Perfect Pastry, tell me what’s thy sign?

Lend me a map, I’ve little time,
your darkest shoreline to explore.
Most willingly I say my heart thine.

I have no place to live or dine,
Be merciful and take me through thy door.
O Hasty Hostess, tell me what’s thy sign?
Most insistently I say thy bed is mine.