the moon is hiding in
her hair.
The
lily
of heaven
full of all dreams,
draws down.

cover her briefness in singing
close her with the intricate faint birds
by daisies and twilights
Deepen her,

Recite
upon her
flesh
the rain’s

pearls singly-whispering.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The light catches his body and
will not let it go, as I lie

and smile and make the appropriate
movements, always thinking -

my head never shuttering, never silenced
as I count up the crimes of the day,

reflected from sight of the light of him,
slapping my face as it hits.

3 grams of
spring green
delivered to the door step
alongside
bright yellow and
blue russet

an unused paint brush
dips into each
and speckles
on glossy paper
turn us into

jackie, jessie,
john
alfred, kate,
and dawn

packaged and sold
as 21 yr old frauds

Bird-songs
bring back fond memories
we were scouts and we camped
in the forest-long ago--seems centuries

when friendship was strong and pure
when life was such a kind friend
amidst bird-songs we sang The Happy Wanderer
and many other melodies--hoping there would be no end

to our simple joys and the world we would continue
to dance with and embrace
under the bright stars and before the camp-fire
each of us wore a lovely moon-lit face

and now we meet fifty years hence
we have so little to say-- bird-songs bring no solace-
our hearts have hardened and the trials
of life have taken their toll---written on our every face

I am unsynchronized synchronicity
The half pages in journals left blank
That's me
The image of composure while crashing down inside
The graceful dance of panic through the web I'm trapped inside
I've felt another shift lately, in the ways that I perceive
The image of the me I know is always incomplete
There's always new ways to see they say
New ways to turn our feet
We can never fully fill the holes this way
But we can still feel more complete

We are all torn paper dolls
No sounds we make when we do fall
Could etch into our porcelain skin
How easy paper is to bend
We have been cut and ripped and folded
Dipped into glue mached and molded
I have learned I am not that thin
My will remains though paper bends
I know we all are paper dolls
One by one in line to fall
I thought us weak until I knew
The falls were a choice
Instead I flew