Straw braids of pacific flutter under eyes
often when trying not to forget Oregon.
It has become somewhat of an epidemic.
They wash over unpeeled lids and hammer them shut-
raising tiny lit nails above my head in sleep.
I attempt to shut out what is now
and entangle in something that is        or once           could be.
I would dwell by ocean
or maybe desert
and live in total juniper and forget me not.
Ah do you smell that?
Yes, it's something in the corner by the door.
Try and see what it is-
It's our cherry blossom-
The one my grandmother gave?
Yes, that is the cherry tree-
Beautiful smell?
Beautiful smell.
And those would be the flowery words spoken
not anger and animosity building
but sharing the salt and foam
under seats of sage all  over christmas valley.       To       the lowest             water perfume.
but alas, that is only a dream. I am still here, next to shaky doors and ripe ripe apple trees all touching the sky.
Oh no, here it comes again-
a sneeze and this thought is gone.