the blossoms were pink and iridescent
I painted them purple and added blue
hues to the trunks of trees
the tip of my round brush swirled
like the petals caught in the breeze

Every time I begin to clean with a magic eraser I feel sad, because of the pure white and clean lines soon to be smudged and torn apart. I console myself with it's function, the beauty of it's usefulness; but still.

on my fingertips
the small noises
of a still night

how rare
the warmth of afternoon turns
on my skin

for awhile
the rain-washed limb
glows

There is a quality to desolation
that I have never seen.

I have been in a desert, touched
the aridity of it’s soil, and its
air like hot feathers
on my breath;
I have seen the sea far out
with only a blue smudge on
the horizon
to mark our return.
But I have never felt that terror,
that awe and loneliness
that has been spoken of,
and said by the poets
and deliverers,
to bring ones face
to God.

Do not misunderstand me.
I have felt these things;
at the end of a trail
leading nowhere,
on a *****
with loose stones
for footholds.
I have been in places of terror
and beauty,
and been overthrown.
But not wholly.

Perhaps
I have not been still
enough, have not lingered
in those part-wild places
that have seen the summit
of my fear, my longing.
Perhaps even they, even
they, have what I seek.

Perhaps
I have not been still
enough.

If I should want

let it not exceed

the number of fingers

on my one hand

fungal bloom
hidden beneath is
its source