they are azure
as a cloudless sky. I float
as a balloon up high.

When I have the greens
they are dandelions
pushing out between the blades
on a day that offers no shade.

When I have the yellows
they are gold,
bright and reflective mirrors
of my soul.

the path I’m heading toward
or the path I've traveled
leads me to the sky.
And the sky rains or shines.

Not seeing
this mess of a woman in the mirror
or the scared girl from the past
acting as a vine, running up and
down sticking to a trellis
leads me to blowing in the wind.
And the wind can take me
to new places.

a whale flopped
over in his pool. And all
the water came splashing out
the sides. The whale, so wide
took up every inch of space.

It was as if
he fell asleep
for a year. Even as
his lashes fluttered as a butterfly
he was in a dream of masks and ties
that was gray. The black
and whites erased. He washed
his face. But did he wake?

It was as if
he did not peel
his eyes off the screen. He lifted
his seat to take a ***. But like slugs
his eyes mugged the green.

It was as if
he was leaning
on his arm and not
his charm to talk. He was flat
as a fly after it was swatted. The square
plastic mesh did not make for a pretty dress.

in-between the gaps
in his hedges. Here I enter
his kingdom. I look up
at him through the glass as I pass.

I fit
into this stage
of doorways and windows. The stacked
logs greet meet. The ground rolls out
the green carpet. I part it with my sole
and point at him with painted toes.

I fit
into his frame. I’m a picture
of wavy hair and tight florals, lipstick
and loose morals. He flicks the light
switch. And I come to life with smiles
and appetite.

I fit
back into the adjusted
driver’s seat. My feet, closer
to the pedals than to him. I talk to
the wheel as I push my heel
down to the floor. The engine roars.

the sound
would be muted.
Robins wouldn’t sing,
and the crickets all’d drown.
The waves out in the ocean
would rise up without a splash.
What would matter?
The rain upon my windowpane
wouldn’t pitter-patter.

I told him
the scene
would be erased.
There’d be no colors.
The green grass would
be brass. There’d be no golden
yellows, or no sky azure.
The marmalades would fade.
All would be obscure

I told him
if he leaves
the rose would not perfume.
I wouldn’t smell the mint
in the garden, even in full bloom.

I told him
I would not be heard
or seen. And all that I touch
would cut. He was the only softness
I’ve felt. And the days would run
like the molasses flood until I turned to rust.

the mornings rose no sun
blackness are the days
the moon pulling double duty
everything lies in shade
If
the robin hadn’t wings
he sings but not flies
and walks on tippy toes
rasping songs down low
If
the whales swallow the oceans
the ocean now a desert
of dry shells and bone
If
you go
I’ll not have the sun
covered in shade
I’ll hang down low
and roam a desert grave

with my wings stuck
to the sides. As I pulled them
apart they tore. So, I hung
in the air upside-down and swung

as a bat with my face
to the ground. But I couldn’t
fly. Twisted and folded onto myself
my reds and purples looked

tie-dyed more than anything
else. If I couldn't fly I'd sing. So
I popped off the top twittering. I'd
twitter in the morning as the sun

rose marmalade on a piece
of French toast. I twittered at noon
as the steam from the pavement filled
my trachea like a hot-air balloon. And I

twittered in the evening with
my friend the moon. And soon the twittering
made me rise. As leaven in the dough  
I rose up high. And with torn wings, now I fly.