blooming masses of purple lilacs,
savory bunches of grapes
for the eye to eat.

ice sculpture trees,
silhouetted against the sun,
scattered from Fairie
on cold winter winds
bear fruits of icicles
as they die
back into reality.

straw
covers a raw wound
of new dirt,
where a tangle
of bushes and weeds
was ripped out
to soothe the sensibilities
of human aesthetics,
leaving behind
grieving trees
to mourn their neighbors.

my family loom
wove sticky woolen words
that trapped my soul
in vast expanses
of itchy incompatibility,
that wrapped me into oblivion
and fashioned their own puppet
from my mummy.

a cloud of dragonflies
softens the November air
with fluttering fireworks
of light-glinting gauze,
reality meshing into Fairie.

a dragonfly
partners with the afternoon wind,
dancing their joy of life
to the reassuring beat
of eternal seconds.
an interrupted glance later,
it has slipped away
to somewhere beyond view,
leaving only the emptiness of air
and emotion.

a section of tree
stands against the steel-grey threat
of gathering October clouds,
its leaves straining
like hounds to slip
the leash of branches
into the Wild Hunt
of the lusting wind,
as their single fellows
scud by through the gloom,
ignoring the supporting rooftops
in their delirious swirl
to freedom.

pine needles
ride roller coaster branches
up and around in the wind,
flashing their sunlit outfits
of furry green diamonds
as they wave to the earthbound world.
wheee-eee-ee!!!

brilliant diamond fire of regret
burns my veins,
my existence diverted
by crushing pressure of lost time
into misery
and not the prophesied joy,
bringing only
the anguish of coping
and the paralyzing fear
of the fire dying
and with it,
life.

framed in a roof window,
a tree
plays a symphony
of motion.
the trunk
conducts the separate sections
of branches and twigs and buds,
blending them together
into one harmony of movement.

pine trees
sprout frail tan candles
pushing up
from a thick scratchiness
of needles
as an affirmation
of another year's renewal.

my living room window
frames a picture
of divine reality.
arboreal Hindu gods
of pine trees
spread their branches of blessings
out from sunlight-carved trunks
and the Halloween night oak,
devoid of leaves,
its spread piercing the tangle of background,
makes its grey skeletal comment
on the green lushness,
while human afterthoughts of telephone poles,
go about their mundane business
as usual.

escaped from streetlights' tyranny,
the moon laces apparitional silver
through a blue silk sky,
creating spectral branches
from a real world mirror.

horses
shine their sight
into the dark crevasses
of my hidden being,
flushing the petrified turmoil
from the arteries
of my emotional life.

turrets
of dandelion leaves
stand guard
over a peasantry
of grass.

wet furry caterpillars
of sleet-heavy pine branches
bend toward my window,
seeking to crawl
into the room.

branches of a bush
weighted
with fairy bridal bouquets
bend into a bower
for the wedding couples.

a string of pearls
lies across a silver jewelry box
under the streaming rays
of a full moon,
the silver of the case
and the moonlight
combining
to enchant the softness of the pearls
into drops of congealed cream.

sunlight
showers sparkles of lemmings
on a ruffling pond,
which the water
herds to oblivion
in the dark hollow
of the shore.

I am anti-matter
filled with the anti-gravity
of imagination
and unconventional light,
born into
an unfortunate family
of matter, dull and hollow,
who create the reality
they want to exist.

fingers of wind
braid swirling snow
into the blonde tresses
of a nearby streetlamp.

metaphors
are the linguistic warp drive
powering
a language.

poplar leaves
spin wind
into the music
of the woods.

dragonflies
are living messages
sent on a milkweed journey
from the lost world
of their origin
to remind the present era
of its duty
to itself.

mushrooms
are portal sponges
of sanctifying nature,
absorbing the blessing
of wand-touched ground
to spread their kaleidoscope benediction
over the earth.

mushrooms
are nature's surprise gift
in the package
of a day.

invited into nature's house
as guests,
we act instead
like children in Grandma's house,
running amok
and wrecking it
with no respect
for the fact
that it can't be replaced.
we need to be careful
in nature's house.

bristly, brushy branches
of a pine tree
reach out
to scrub the surrounding air
after a summer rain

a thick syrup of sunshine
spills over a lawn,
chiseling the grass
with spring highlights
to stand in relief
against the anonymous shade.

bare stalks
nurture liquid crystal berries
of raindrops,
glinting fertility
holding the fat
of the earth.

autumn leaves
spill down over a roof
to a pocket of yard below,
generous currency
scattered to all who will value it.

dawn
settles on a roof,
softly feathering it
with light and air.

tip-top tree branches lean together
to draw a warm blanket
of leafy roof over the woods,
tucking everything below it
into safety.

little old bald-headed tree
stretches bare branches
into the sky,
drawing the universe
into its veins
to live again
come spring.

the sun
of the present
breaks through the clouds
of the past.

the moon
is a perfect pearl
tossed upon waves of clouds
in an ocean of universe.

bored leaves
play charades on their tree
with sun and wind,
becoming dark targets
of rustling emeralds
shot through with diamond bullets,
or lanterns
soothing the steel blue fear
of lowering clouds
with a soft glow of hope.
shears of sun
cut green tinfoil leaves
to shimmer around
a dance floor of wind
until evening
quietly melds
a puzzle of lumpy whispers
into a whole.

a day
is a temporal dragonfly
disappearing
into the wide-open spaces
of infinity.

a voice
calls to my mind's ears
from my brain's past
from somewhere in the deep unknowing,
blocked off
and inaccessible
except to it.
its winter chains of words
drag my emotions from me
down the hill
into the little girl I once was
who waits,
her ghost-infected wounds still open
and bleeding lifeless tears.

reeds
admire their necklaces
of clustered sun chips
in a wavering water mirror
as they gossip
in the borrowed voices
of a rustling breeze.

butterfly, butterfly,
ready to emerge at last
from years of false starts,
breaking through blind threads
of the cocoon
that has always held you rigid,
struggling through old and brittle bonds
which will not easily unravel
into a trembling, mangled
earthquake of universe
with nowhere stable or still,
trying to keep your balance
to flutter through storm-tossed air
and moving debris
until you can find some place
to land
and take the next step
to metamorphose
into yourself.

waves rock
a daytime lake
as scurrying ghosts
slide beneath the surface.

high in the treetops
spindles of sun-gilded leaves
spin wind
into songs of the trees
to share
with the world.

the world is written
in emotional hieroglyphs
which I cannot read
or interpret.

pine branches
reach toward my window,
friendly visitors peeking in
to see how I am doing.

my mother birthed me
from the reflections
in her family mirror,
to be their reflection
with no substance
or reality.

the *****
is an itch
that I could never scratch
until now.