I must have seen
a hundred by now.
But I'll never bore
of the spin away
from the warming light,
the clouds transformed
pink and violet,
and the blinding glow
split in two,
like yin and yang,
like Saturn.

Tucked into a
cotton pocket,
weaving gold thread over
the cauliflower horizon.
A crown of shadows
blooms in the mirrored sky,
as the orb I'm tethered to
turns it's shoulder
on the light again,
and I nod goodbye to the sun.

my stylus on the keyboard

is...

a vulture venturing from q to m, scavenging the whole way

spelling not a kind word, leaving a cyber trail of blood

mockingbirds rarely roost; when they do, they typeset self loathing, for what it's worth

mostly mourning doves make nest there, pecking keys, punctuating words with their sad songs

deaf as I am, I still hear them,
see their blue tales

not yet has an owl visited with its mythic wisdom, but I know one day it will call my name...

not a minute too soon, amidst this fluttering digital madness

Contemplate a teardrop,
and this is what I see.
A drop of moisture
from an irritation?
Some agree.

What is a teardrop made of,
just some water from a gland?
But brush it off and contemplate
the moisture on your hand.

It's also made of sorrow
or from pain that you may feel
A treasure of emotion
on your cheek
that might congeal

"Tears of happiness" are made
of joy or great suprise
That fall like rain in summer
from a pair of smiling eyes.

They course down cheeks in rivers
or collect on lashes there.
They form in silent puddles
when emotions are laid bare.

Tears are gems as precious
as a diamond that is mined
So do not take them lightly
if their origins you can't find.

They're made of things like music
that can make the heart take wing
Or how the soul can elevate
to hear an angel sing.

She has no mirror
but where flirt the leaves with the pond
she comes in the cool of noon
mixing the dark of her hair
with the summer shade
dipping into glass green water
her toes and far above
and all the pond sees
encrypts within the bubbles of rainbow
that only her clothes
swelled in awe
can read.

On rising heat, killdeer flush
to decoy the enemy--
threat to its young that roams too close
They rush to skim on hayish blur
wailing over wildflowers drying

Fretful twitter in perpetual flight
swifts-- twirl and hurl their bits of bodies--
debris
from a cumulonimbus of a late-day sky
toward a ridge of stag horn sumac
presuming horizon primordial
behind which time and city-- drift and wobble
on rising heat-- after rush hour

*Rising Heat
Rising--
to meet my mind
on its way down
from my post behind
the laundromat
where I view it all--
rising--
where I usually go in search of quiet
to almost hear the ocean
     two hundred miles away
to strain words from wind
     in careless conversation
to wonder over
     missed whispers....

But not today
In rising heat, I went down
in search of something better--
     your eyes again
     solvent for my presence of mind
     dissolvers of hours and the order of things
But I need an excuse!
     To turn, to trespass, to disturb the peace!
     For your eyes again!
And still I need more-- being feverish, weak
Or?
Or... should I take the cure?
     To deny ...To deny

To deny what?
Overtones from a sea of years?
I don't know!  Whatever it was!
Nothing explain it...

I melt... I'm gone....