Ocean blue eyes

They crash right into me
I feel like a still lighthouse in an angry ocean

Your waves crumble me as I struggle to see

a storm within arises,
my light dims amongst your rising water

It is a struggle that is too surreal…

The ocean follows the moon and the patterns it believes to be true

When I look at the sky its blueness mixes
and cycles with thunder, lightning and rain.

I notice, the  vulture, content to feast on leftovers of once
beautiful things, fly  with the same majesty of the hawk.

At night, I see the stars burn bright and smell the rain’s petrichor snake off the worn sides of Racoon Mountain.

Yet, I the only thing that is neither sky, bird, mountain nor star,
wonder, spend so much time wondering, if this is peace or joy.

A tree uprooted,

mud, a crack in the rock-ledge –


and clear spring water!

How
can
something
smell
so
sweet
yet
taste
so
bitter?

A swaying synthetic tub
waltzes in summer’s breeze
fingers interlocked, one step two,
full of rotted leaves wilted petals,
afterthoughts of Spring’s bloom.

An underdeveloped songbird
basks in the Louisville sunlight,
infrequent chirps of language
misunderstood perceived as
barbaric melodies too primal
for basic understanding. The
song of the bird an audible
reflection of the natural world,
an epitomized version of swaying
bluegrass and beckoning bushes,
of turbulent winds and undulating
clouds, of violet skies lost in the
haze of a brackish day, of a setting
sun glancing one last time at
the eyes refusing to gaze back.

White-specked eggs soon to burst
with new life and freshly glazed
eyes; novel music awaits its
composition, written for the ears
no longer around to hear them sung.