A small girl with braids steals snapshots out a squoval window
Every soul, each object in the long cabin
is overcast with a sheen of sleepy,
jet fueled jet lag
But daylight, pure and natural
shines through on the small wanderer, basting her in possibility

The plane interior is pale, cool gray
with sky blue accents
Matching this, the child-woman wears comfy, muted 3 day sweats {luggage lost}
and the snow capped Rockies she gazes upon tie it all together:
Silvers, grays, whites, and
A Touch of the Blues

She'll get somewhere soon
but for now she'll just
be

The wind sneaks in through my window sill
and I can hear the rhythm of the rain.

A shy draft looms like a visitor
misplaced it roams my way.

Outside I hear the thunder howl
as windswept trees whisper my name,
so I close my eyes to the chill of the moon
pushing blue hues through my glass pane.

i used to lay on the snowed-in flowerbeds
of nan's backyard. once it snowed enough,
you couldn't tell that a ****** of perrenials
slept peacefully there: all crushed
and crooked beneath
dirt and ice.

some days she'd come and join me
if the ground was soft enough:
we'd stargaze up into the cosmos
of pine trees overhead and listen
for the stillness of winter - the hush
of silence that lingered in the air.

ivy and henbit writhed
gingerly underfoot:
a quiet dogfight
of frozen earth
that begged a
sluggish spring
to come out of
hiding.

Fievel goes West
Picture me
A wee mouse
lofting my parcels
in a handkerchief
tied to a walking stick
Bringing so little
and gaining so much
I can't wait to lay
eyes on my anchor
of stars
Across these states
In a new place
so novel, so far

Explosion in funky beats
Dreams in the key of acid
The Ascension of Coltrane himself
Nothing more Nothing less
Bliss in raging fevers
The exact color of exquisite
Heartbeats in lime and bubbles
with a dash of salt
Help you remember how it feels
to feel

It's finally beautiful outside
Evening fell gently
In love again

Playing with fire outside
Making a meal
The Lumineers crooning
in the background
makes me feel romantic
nostalgia
Something in the way
the coals smolder

Stars are out
Hopes are high
In love again
and it's lovely
lovely
lovely

But.

i miss you
i miss you
i miss you

Why do we write?

Because every poem we create
is another drop in the antidote
to man's affliction with war