If it was autumn forever the ribbions tied to the banister of your porch would still be dancing on a vibrant breeze. And in the door step stair well where i left mumbling ghosts of uncerctainty, they might still wail at three a.m. when the cool night air cast me to your warmth.

But winter came and inbetween the microcosom fabric of those ribbions ice crystals grew and shattered, winter glass shreded all the pretty things i left. The ghosts prefered the chance of you but as winter fell and you became more transparent than them, i guess they hitched themselves to the moon, just trying to visit something beautiful.

I watched the eyes of a creme colored doe as the light left in ribbions that lifted the air and revealed the gods underneath. The blood mixed with the earth, her scent with the air and the cycle was complete...

Ribbions cascade around us all.

the examined life, portrayed right at the fingertips, in loving memory, in loving color, swirled together, finding their roots at epitome, the example. the hand reaches out to the flower pedal floating its all simple, the hand reaches for what it needs, the person is enchanted, delighted, to be a part of something, that moment when the dynamic is flawless, those little moments, when the sun hits and there are parades in the background the the hand and eye and mouth are all focused on one specific interaction.  

these moments, take up all the time they need, and then they pass, and that is that, but time has a funny way of working its way up the spine, finding itself later in the recess of memory, embrace, warmth that is uncontitional, while no truth is permanent some stand for longer periods than others, and while they stand we dance, we dance, we dance

we cast ribbions to to top!  and we throw confetti all over and celebrate!  yes and while celebration may be a set up for disappointment, in that moment, that specific moment, celebration is perfect, and love shines, and its power is furious, its power is locked in, and death is escaped somehow, the spirit is sprinkled, like the confetti, and the individual is, truely, selfless

Upon a distant mountain,
My head was swept away
By the river of light, floating in the constant cosmic ocean.
My head was swept away,
Back to that magnanimous moment.

A star plucked from the sky and placed in my palm.
Gifted by bright eyes; an earnest lover of life.

The magnitude of it brighter than any moon,
Its fire sank into my skin, spun new fate and sparked the beginning of new friends.

Little caravan birdies, bright songs and struggles. A spectrum of what the best we folk here have to offer and often they surprise me still.

Laughter that could shake the darkest of nights with a vibrancy that could only be described in mushroom trips.
Magic casters with bags of tricks to flick phosphor fire into the eyes of brutal grey matter spooks,
The ones that hide in pillows and in lonely ciggarettes.

Family made from bottles of wine, borrowed feathers; boundless flight.

Lovey wonders, starlight disguised as us,
Ribbions of stellar dust.

When I gaze into the creases of my palm,
I still feel its warmth, still see their light,
Forever grateful for the star plucked,
From that magnanimous night.

I just ****** love my friends.