He was born from spring rains
When new leaves unfurled
Heady sweet mimosa and willow
Filling the air with peaceful green
Lacing the ground in spinning shifting patterns
Scattered sunlight as drops dripped from trees
Knee deep in rivulets bubbling and rushing
To my back door.
He called me out to play

I ran with him hand in hand abandoning
The mundane four walled pristine
Plaster world I passed as real
Feeling cool fronds brush against my hungry cheek
Neck tilted
Back arched
Swallowing the droplets as they trickled from
The branches
Unmoved by the rushing water
The thunder
Spring rains turning to the deluge
Of a summer storm
Innocence swept away on the furious current

Now I dream in green
Fervent unseen passion
Masked by my lack of reaction
Yet the back door stays open
As spring rains drip from leaves
Rustled by a gentle breeze
Could it be that he...
Comes calling me to play

TL Boehm
072206

Make paper boats
Of your dreams;

Place them
Down the lanes

When it rains.
Water will flow;

They will float,
Finally will reach

Their destination
Through zigzag ways.

Without nature,
We cant get through.

Children must learn
This in their life.

If someone wrote about me, I’d want them to write about how they fell in love with me,
They fell in love with my smile and noticed my little crooked tooth,
They’d say they fell in love with my loud girly laugh,
Or that they noticed the coloring on the outside of my eye,
Something about how they knew in my face that I was sad,
And that I bite my cuticles when I’m nervous,
That they loved how I was a secret writer,
they’d say that they loved my different sides of sweet and sassy,
and that they knew I had an appreciation for appearance and clothes,
the tone of my voice as I’m falling asleep is their favorite thing,
and every time they see me their heart skips a beat,
I’d want someone who loves me to write about my likes and interest,
The stories I’ve shared from my past,
And the eventful things planned in my head for the future,
I’d want you to talk about how you watched me sit underneath that tree as I read a book in the grass with white cotton shorts and my hair was a mess,
That everything so imperfect about me you loved in every single way,
That my scratches and scars didn’t show but you knew where each was located,
I’d want you to say how I’m an innocent girl and although you’re the baddest of the boys I helped you leave that rock bottom spot,
If you were to write about me, there’s a lot you could say, good and bad in many ways,
But the only thing I’d ever want to read was that you loved me just for being me

I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
                                      and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.

And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.

But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.