Old cherry tree beams—
Wind shudders through dark branches,
  .  .  .  White petals falling.

Masters of Science.
For doing this, am I wise
or merely foolish?

Fridge magnet poems.
Two hours he watched my mind work,
he says, "I knew then."

The faces came back.
This time, though, a rare few smile.
What are they plotting?

Train, train, bus is late.
Boiled and delicate in sun,
someone sings. I wait.

Beside greenhouses,
a gold field twinkles, endless.
I think of Steinbeck.

Crowding, reaching out,
nettles have claws here, and eyes.
Is my mind slipping?

I cry, all messy,
happy tears. His words show me
I am not useless.

The future. Although
I can't imagine mine, still-
day breaks, night falls. Time.

Hanging out my fresh washed sheet,
I'm whiter. I forgot to eat.

Things can be beautiful when falling apart
and not always reason for crying.
Just think of a leaf broken free from a tree
or the soft sounds of floorboards, sighing.

It seems I've filled these grown-up shoes
but I don't know when I grew
because yesterday I was still seventeen
and today I am really twenty-two.

Partially lit and yellowing,
seeping in from night, the morning
stale leftover hours, all spent ignoring
the tsunami, the taps
on a shoulder, a warning.

When I wake up, my skin will be golden,
the wolves wont be hungry,
the wind will be sleeping
my back will lie flat against the lace trim
of a dream and my pockets
will be full to the brim with pennies
and trinkets, catching light pretty.
In the premature summer sun
they will feel heavy, but I'd never dream
of mentioning any ache
now I feel happy to know sleep from wake.

I was born today
but twenty three years ago.
Am I wiser yet?