Your windblown hair and
your windbound heart
inhabit a single memory.
Sad eyes in the rearview mirror
Pursed lips and perverted thoughts
Like how your hand resting on her thigh
should be resting on mine
instead.

I have been practicing form
with many curls of graphite on paper
between soft blue and white lines
scratching hollow hearts in repetition
until they bend into V’s:
that very shape children turn birds into.

Careful and careless with my heart
as I am with the storm cloud of little ones
on my pages
flurried into place by my absent mind
I am absent
I am filled to my throat with smoke,
the desire to take flight,
absent in thoughts of you.

The shape of an arrowhead,
Eros’ penetrating tip.
The angle of a woman’s *******.
The bend of a wishbone ready to snap.
These could all be called
the shape of love

but my love will always be a bird too high, a V windbound,
that I will pin to my fridge with a magnet
and look at every other Sunday
when I remember it.

There's pine clinging to the breeze ,
The scrabble and babble of "easties"-
in the trees ..
A chorus of windbound ravens ..
All Hail ! The security of my warm winter haven ...
A frozen bell
A cockleshell
Two milk cans
Wind racked pie pans
A Farmers Almanac ,
a glass-top table half full-
of nick-knacks , this and-
thats , whatever and 'what on
earth's , the accoutrements of the blessed aged-
and the soon to be interred .. A once mighty sunflower scratches-
the porch screen ...
Thus , my steadfast , collective account of rural daydreams ..