you exhale; it is the wind through
the forest; the rising of brittle
brown leaves

into a uniform, twisting thing
of color; our lives bounded
along its length

then it rests; the long brush-
stroke reaches canvas’ edge -  
a clearing

(this is not the end, but as if
only to pause for another
breath)

relax the sun is good and see it
come in through the window but
there is another source hidden and
secret is the heat that rises
from your chest and enters mine
and breaks down the walls of
the city inside and heals
all the broken

Green eyes.
Green, yellowish in
the center.
Sunflowers in
the center, and
white skin and
freckles and
everything else is
red

Old myths dying under
the new sun
rising, spilling over
grassy fields dotted
with poppies

The day is unspoiled.

yesterday with you in
March, the cherry
blossoms - please
don't miss the little
flowers in your
search for a more
giving thing because
my sweetest love,
there is none. only
the children know
this, but I think
we are all children
after the rain.