Waiting as the leaves float above us
Delicate joints forgive gravity
As the ground shifts beneath
Bed of grass
Are you happy? The wind is blowing north. You are not a burden.
Warm sassafras earthen outlines
Wispy milkweed nebula within the path
Leaping into further fields,
Splendid happenings in our house of clay,
Sculptures of pure weightlessness.
The rain will come at 4, so we watch the field.
Like the early morning,
The first night,
The windows down, the hills, the trees, feeling safe, feeling missing, feeling music
Shimmer down the back of my neck.
Feeling isolation, too little, too much, nothing, everything.
Meanings are alienated: her ideas connected to mine.
Ambient colors blend in swatches of light.
The artist stands up, spills the paint, smears the light.
Art is for souls written in silhouettes.
We run barefoot in grass,
Towards the approaching gray
Blades cling to glistening legs like strikethrough text.
Self and ego unite
Thoughts drift as leaves suspended in the rising stream
This rain is an unfinished thought.
The pressure change comes like a broken bone.
Trillium wildflowers parallel the ravine
Delicate white bodies bend
As warmth is pushed higher,
Water condenses and falls:
Time is places and places are time
Sleeping in old beds,
Scents of warmth,
Snow collected over antique film
A garden buried in hibernation,
Sleeping yet seeing
Withering velvet songs underground
Echo in pastel church bell skies.
They taste of light,
They dream of dawn.
I am not in the garden, it is myself. It is him.
The cathedral glass swells,
Growing and shrinking like the stars.
Memories
of dancing in the
kitchen, steam from boiling pots
of water hanging on
windows open to
pine trees,
muffled songs.
Memories of falls petrified in ice. We climbed a fire tower, slipping between steep planks of lumber to the top of the fall sunset, the moonrise, a red disk on the open horizon.
He is playing chess. My mind is quiet. I have made my bed.
The colors stretch into a fine line- white light permeates the new home.