She's stark raving mad
they tell me. But I think
of a wild-eyed dreamer,
hands to the heavens,
splayed,
longing with long fingers
to entice those lights
into moonlight sonatas that would make
Beethoven proud.

And I decide it might not be so bad
to be star-craving mad.

The first arctic blast is startling
in the last of summer
because we hoped some things
were forever.
It whispers snow into the trees–
and suddenly,
the common ground that was once so fertile
stiffens.

The leaves change at the first sign of trouble,
not brave enough for winter,
but aflame before they go out.
I am disappointed–
I thought they were better than that.

In bed,
you turn your shoulders against me,
sharpened like ice,
and it seems
there will be no more growing
this season.

I.

sometimes my thoughts are like
dead dandelions

fragile
delicate

and it only takes a breath
to lose them.

II.**

sometimes my thoughts are like
dead dandelions

fertile
intricate

and it only takes a breath
to use them.

I didn’t know them then,
these powers–
cleansing, flowing–
but awareness was not required
for use.

Now, some draw from my well
and its cultivated depths
for bathing and the slow erosion
of rough edges,
for refreshment,
for finding new paths–
and I know my purpose.

But to you, I was always transparent,
and in those days,
the glassy surface was yours
to interpret, and the plunge–
though drowning was on your mind.
Perhaps, with time,
I bored through you without intent
to leave you a canyon
to leave me.

The tide goes out in retreat,
splashing myself over your earth no longer.
When I return,
I am wave touching water,
single and whole.
The desert people come
to drink from my well,
and you with your camel and canyon and empty canteen.