blowing on their tufted
tops, floating in the air
like parachutes. Planting
their seeds to fruit. There's no

limit how far they travel. All
these mysteries in time
unravel. Cottonwood
fluff riding the

wind. Their fine down hairs
coating plants and spider
webs. Like a blanket of snow
they spread throughout

the river park in a glow of
white after dark. It only takes
one gritty seed to make it
to a tree.

like a fitted cotton sheet
tucked inside the hall closet,
stacked neat on the
bottom with the pillow

cases. She spread out
like a butterfly emerging
from her chrysalis and flew
off into the distance. I watched

her airborne. And I stood forlorn
at how she unfolded. I liked her
tight and molded when I had her
in my hand. But she had her

plans. I was rooted to
my yard like the big oak tree,
stripped of leaves in winter,
with bark splintered. She

unfolded like a picnic blanket on
a sunny day. People gathered
to eat and drink and celebrate. And I
was not invited. I sat nil and slighted.

skate on a crystal thinning
silver lakes. Swinging down
on rose vines they throw out
rhymes in a parade

to be seen. Pasting it
like paper dolls in these rooms
that have not walls, some call
a magazine. Till the weeks

scream not in words
but freshly painted silences
dropping down in bombs
of red. There fly pieces

of a dream. It's raining shards
of thank you nots. And like tots
wobble to the next room for
a shot with bruises on their egos

and knees. Waiting to please
men coloring with pen in the lines. Dotting
their eyes with white cotton, they'll not
be sought in this edition.

is a smile
was an upside down
frown. His eyes blue as
the ocean. But inside them

I drown. Drawn like a bee
to his lavender colors
and gold. But as I grew close,
like the night he turned

cold. He stung me after
feeding me honey. We met
on a day it was breezy and
sunny. But grey clouds

trumpeted like elephants
in the bush. What I thought
was kinship turned
into an ambush.

and polished it with
lace. I placed it on my mantel,
above the hearth, next to
the candles. It sat there

looking at me. So, I asked it
for a cup of tea. We laughed and
we wept. I slept if off that night
high as the luminescent

streetlight. But it swelled up
like a bee sting the next morning. I iced it
with a drink I fixed in my kitchen
sink of ***** and olive brine. Then I

penned this line by line, staring
at the cracks I spackled with juniper
and rose hips from the garden. This time,
hardened in a tortoise shell next to the candles.

again. I'll pack it away
like a birthday present. Stuff
it in my drawers, with my bras
and socks. It's like a cookie

crumbling. I lick off all
the frosting. What's left falls on
the floor, to be swept up when I do
the evening chores. It's a locomotive

train leaving the station in the
morning. If I sleep in, I'll miss
it. I must run or it will fly like an eagle
mountain high. But in the running,

I must stop and sniff my garden
blooming or catch a breeze skating
a figure eight on my skin. My face,
a tease of sunlight percolating.

a beam of a golden
stream flickering in the old
winged back chair, the one
with pills from the cat and all

his black hair. The cornflower
blue has faded to grey. But
through my window I see
how sunlight plays. It's the only

life this wooden four legged
seat has had. It sits in the corner
like an impish lad. It moved to this
house after my parents died, along

with the couch and dishes
piled high. But today a dancing
yellow strand ran across its back
when the window was opened a crack.