the scalloped skirts
of the biloba ballerinas
are furling while green
still paints the stems
of the stubborn soloists.

the maidenhair corps de ballet
flies from the wings
tutus golden to match the winter light.
curtains open on the new season.
the sidewalk audience stands

in ovation
and continues home.

Did you hear what I said?
So often/not yet.
But you responded all the same.
It seemed a better method
than to ignore and regret it.
What could've been if I'd known your name?
There's a chance you'll see me
another day. And we'll be
engaged in the new-old game
of predicting/amending.
We're better off listening.
But the thought of it's really quite lame.

tides pull greens through blues
perpetual sunsetting
at the golden gate

A rose-window seldom resembles a rose
And we're taught that's okay.
An allusion will suffice
Where an illusion fails

And either is better than the third near-homophone.
The Carmen Sandiego of it all.

For if we cannot have the real thing
It's more fitting to sketch the bones from memory
Than to chase the world round
And only find its thorns.

Anyone who has stood at a river long enough has felt change stir within.
Yes, the water is always moving.
Here, your mortal feet will never be caressed by the same stream twice.
It takes time for water flowing in one direction to flow again over you.
But in your travels, fortunate wanderer, you may happen again
upon the same drops in a different body.  

Can the same be said for trees?
Deciduous or not, all lose their leaves in time.
And can the leaf you admire today be seen again in your lifetime?
Not in the same form.
It falls, my dear,
past the bark to the waiting litter below.
sustaining again.
Becoming eventually.

In the meantime, our failing eyes
watch the tree react.
Big enough it is to draw our attention.
How many strikes can it sustain?
How many fires will it survive?
Countless, my darling.

For when it fears,
for when it just may cease to be,
it does not leave its potential unharvested grain,
but digs deeply.
Widely into the earth, the tree gives
to the network it has always been a part of.
Leaving, we know, enough of itself
to be found again.

There once was a city with too many rats
The townspeople gathered and brought out the cats.
Disappointed they were
In their best friends with fur
For the pets caught nothing but naps from their mats.

Several successive puddles
of cuddles
followed Susannah that day.

"Oh, dear Susannah!
It's hot in Havana.
But it's chilly right next to the Bay."

To the near puddles
Susie kindly rebuttals,
"What a silly true thing to say!

If the weather was wetter,
could you carry a sweater?
For tomorrow's much worse than today!"

We are all matter 
particles and dust
echoed in objects existing distances
we're still learning to fathom away.

So take comfort, darling.
There is as much light inside of you as there is without.

But what of fault, dear Brutus?
If it is within us,
does it remain so in our stars?
Or are they, indeed, made of that sterner stuff?

There once was a ******* an old ship.
Blue skies and waves were her catnip.
Put wind in her sails.
She'll fill up the pails
And hope that the seals stop the drip-drip.