as your petals
fall. Stand up tall

to the sun. Do not
bow your face, You

don’t have a fan
of violet. You’re shy. Let

all fall free. Your blanket
is the sky. No longer

attached. The appendages
are not your patch. Bare is

beautiful. It has a shiny
head. Some say bare is dead. But

it is not. The moon is bare. It
glows in dark.

in my backyard
make it hard for my
winged, feathered friends
to have a bite of seed. They

climb and swing, claw
everything. They’ve broken
two feeders!  On my Oak acorns
are found. And in the fall the brown

nuggets line the ground
like a rug. But still doesn't stop the
pesty thugs! They take over like
a thundercloud. Grey as they are –

in my backyard

in his hands,
wet and pliable. He rolls me
out on his table, softly
caressing me. And I stick to

his fingers as a wet glove
covered in snow. I don’t want
to let go. I’m melting to his touch. All
my bits of hardness are broken

off and blended as a watercolor
in the rain. I rise as I dry
as the sun over the ocean in crimson
with streaks of gold. All this he rolled

with sweetness and years, with smiles
and with tears. I smell the waft
slip under his door as cinnamon and
clover, swirled into a sky of blue.

on the canvas. I was
wet and dripping like a feral
kitten. My creator didn’t lay me
out in the sun. And so, my colors

run. The red and blues
look purple. The mother’s milk
curdled. Throwing me up as *****. And so,
I left a stain. Beaten by the brush

I lost my sense of touch. Now
I’m oily. I’m a spill in a broken
frame. I hang on the wall as
a flower. None admire me. But I haven’t
nerves to leave.

is like the moon
swallowed the sun
for breakfast. And the
crest of the mountain
was a zit. And I popped
it with my fingertip.

A day without you
is like all the colors
bled into a basin. And I
was chasing them down
until I drowned.

A day without you
is like all the flowers
wilted. And their petals
fell. And my head was stuck
in a bell that was ringing,
until I was swinging
like a carousel.

A day without you
is like a kite
tangled in a tree. A boy
pulls the string. But the spine
snaps in half. And the tail *****
in the breeze.

loosens from
the Oak, full of burnt orange,
crimson and gold. At the point
it does is not known. Then it is blown

by the wind. In the direction
it travels is not known. It
can lay around for days. Be trampled
on, raked and bagged. Picked up

by a girl or boy, and carried home
full of joy. If this is so
is not known. But as spring sings
a new leaf has grown.

the sun
not just on anyone
but on me
hung it with honey
and jubilee

He hung
the moon
not a moment too soon
but on the mark
with glitter and spark

He hung
the stars
not as they are
but with candy canes
and gumdrops
chocolate bars
and memoirs

He hung
around
as all the men left
waltzing down
a steep, rocky cleft

He hung
out
as a totem pole
for men to read
in marigold
feathers and beads