"i have
no socks"
you say;
slightly
frustrated
in the
morning.
i watch
you —
splendid
human-dust
float about
our little
home.
in worldly
commotion
about making
the most
of this life,
i wonder
how much
more it
takes to
make the
most? if
there was
such a
thing, would
it certainly
not be
this?
here?
tea
poured
from a
saucepan
into a flask.
driving far
in the night
to watch
meteors fall
or pick up
mid-week
groceries.
could 'most'
be in a state
of mind that
makes for a
lovely, long
sleep?
coffee cups
washed and
dried; walking
along a market
making songs
out of words
at random.
shoots
becoming
leaves on
a new plant.
arms and
legs?
warm
water?
clementines?
sunlight?
this?
here?
big sigh.
you stop
in the
middle
of the
room.
look
at me.
all the
socks
are in
the left
drawer.

july was
a long
time ago.
i'm still
almost
asleep
here
underneath
this tree;
surrounded
by unknown
wildflowers
-- yellow, blue
some purple.
the insects,
come alive,
on wood
and grass
have started
to sing;
the rosy
evening sky
is mixing
with a soft
golden sun.
eyes shut,
i can hear
the children
playing at
a distance.
giggles; the
bark of a
big dog
with sweet
eyes. the
little girl
has peach
ribbons in
her hair. of
course, this
i imagine
lying here.
strands of
my wild hair
are swaying
with the
breeze;
bare toes
and thighs
and skirt
covered in
damp earth.
as the
clementines
from the
clementine
tree start
to fall, i turn
to lay on
my back.
watching,
with my
eyes closed,
the stars
slowly
appear.
lying
alone
here,
in this
meadow,
i can feel
the months
go by --
the insects
dying and
being born
again;
summer air
becoming
colder
against my
bare legs.

i tried
my best
to love
you and
ask for
nothing
in return.
the pots
and pans
in the
kitchen
remained
unmoved.
morning
tea; never
made.
the plants
were slowly
dying.

plum or
burgundy,
blue and
gray —
your
sweater
is the
loveliest
thing
about
today.
quietly,
this
morning
at the
dining table
has become
a place
in the
woods.
here,
i've come
again to
see you
in this
sweater.
brought
a boat
in case
you'd like
to come
with me
this time.
the trees;
new and
old and
named
after
friends
are
swaying
to the
songs
of our
voices.
and i have
dusted,
held
and
loved
the parts
of you that
have
longed
only for
this.
the blue
skies are
slowly
turning
into the
wooden
ceiling
of a
dining
room.
with two
cups of
tea and
buttered
toast,
here,
we have
made a
home out
of paper,
mugs and
morning
mumbles.
the golden
summer is
covered in
light snow.
and turns
out —
past
and
present
are almost
the same
thing.
plum or
burgundy,
blue and
gray — you
are lying
here
in this
sweater
with soft
sunlight
shining
in your
eyes;
between
the ocean
and the
woods,
suddenly,
i've spent
a lifetime.

sat in an
empty ***
of dry soil,
the wildflowers
have been
singing to me
all afternoon.
warm cups
of coffee
were made
again and
again in
this home
and we
laughed
at words
spoken in
silly ways.
quietly, as
the forks
napped with
the spoons,
the grey-blue
sky burst
into a deep
magenta.
a poem
was made,
and the
neighbour's
dog was
comforted
by a
familiar
face.
as the
butter
slowly,
deliciously
melted in
the pan
in our
small
kitchen,
a very
ordinary
life
went on
to bring
brilliant
joy.
the
wildflowers
sang;
we had
coffee
again.

the wild waters
of this ocean
are taking me
everywhere;
but there's an
agreement to
be on the shore
an agreement to
be on the shore
an agreement
to be on
the shore
again.

nap-hair,
toes,
nose,
thighs.
your
autumn-
rain scent
is pulling
me out
of my
slumber
and softly
putting
me back
to sleep.