into a flock of words
we fly, fearless of falling
knowing we will fall
a lot!

stretching like taffy
your sweet day
can be delicious

windowed turret
graceful giraffe
but I see it

Jim and I sprawl on the floor
with stuffed animals,
freeing their voices, our minds ajar.
Leo hides in grasses golden
as his mane.  "I see you," says Scarlet,
on sunny currents of gliding air.
Raisin peers through leafy walls,
taps his shoulder, "You're it!"
and dives away camouflaged.
I don't want to go down the stairs.
                      I'm not going.
                I'm not going.
        I'm not going.
   I'm staying here being Leo
with Jim next to me.

We line up.
"I did it," Jim lies.
Into the dungeon my brother decends,
taking what was meant for me,
though I did something as small
as leaving Raisin on the floor.
I cuddle my Leo, 
must go down, 
       down,
               down.
                 Scarlet flies
                     above my head
                           until the last step.
                                             

                 Felt

Tender I move with bare feet,
always bare, across stones
sharp as tiny broken shells,
on a dusty worn pine floor,
on boulders, perfectly placed,
begotten as snow flakes,
as blue whales and quaking aspen.
They bleed freely, these feet.
These feet, they cry and laugh,
fall joyfully calloused,
fly demigod-like, no, god-like.
They speak an invitation, 
a lullaby, an invocation.
They speak to you
like an umbrella in the rain,
a shawl around your shoulders,
to a seamstress a present of felt.

we play C
a rock and rose
for you and me

prior to addition
crawling
opening ones eyes

C encompassed the womb
and before
the atom

creator hummed
this first note

this morning
with a cat on my lap
green rain and leaf

beaming in I realize
how lucky we are
to om to C

daughter of two
lover of one
mother of three
sister of infinity

He gives me roses,
transposes my moves.
Around my rows,
I juxtapose his garden.

wombed winter white
 is reborn green, 
green like sunbathing
 sugar snap peas

Your gifts -
tea tree shampoo
and a red rose
are in my hair.

Omi died, 
refusing food from a tube,
resolved, dissolving, dignified, into bone. 
In her sentient stories, glorious and tragic, 
tears never fell or laughter sounded
from her European mouth that never spoke of war.
I cry for her and laugh (she thought)
unladylike.
I hate and honor her decision,
not to live.

sheepy dog
under the table
tuna sandwich
gone!

Singing to you
a horizon away -
you hear me.

stop light -
half asleep, draped
in fluorescent snow

I decided yesterday
      I couldn't write anymore
and here I am writing,
      to you again.

Six minutes to lose my carriage,
  kingdom, gown, my handsome prince,
    till all the lights go out.
      Morning I get them all back!

I know what the problem is.
I haven't hugged a tree in months,
retreating this winter from nature -
beloved siblings of leaf and wood.

She was covered more than a nun,
 black as coal. I knew nothing of her,
  except she could be me
   by the blink of God
    and I her.
     Then I would trail behind him
      aware he is eyeing a colorful woman
       head to toe coveting her,
        she, poet, creator of goodwill,
         suddenly senses being opened,
          like a packaged commodity.
She doesn’t know I am a poet of prayers,
creator of goodwill too and I’m sorry.

   

The old poet speaks
to time vanquished.
We, one with her
imaginings,
step with her lithe feet,
see through her ocean eyes,
tenderness.
Even the powerful,
distant or fearful,
break on waves.
The old poet speaks.

Spring!
Icicles sparkle,
instead of daffodils.

The Help Line

Uninterrupted, wound and wounded,
barely breathing she runs on
without pacing her words and thoughts.
Letting go of redirection,
(I used to try to stop her and she’d shove
my words away.)
I listen.  
I know her lonely story, the crying plot,
though she does not cry.
She says she is grateful;
I am the only person
in the entire world who listens.
She doesn't know, I’m drawing
her chrysanthemums.

Michael recites my love poem,

on his way to dog sledding

on the Iron Range -

last time it was from a helicopter,

before jumping into sky.

I sit silent on the sofa.

His sweet, strong voice

I would eat if I could,

clear, through the phone.

I tell him so, in the accent

of the Transylvania Count, 

"I want to eat your voice."

he laughs, then says,
"and I have eaten your poetry.
Many times. This poem is mine."
In the space between us I hear
swishing of wind shield wipers
clearing away snow.

I encounter myself
the moment I
start singing.

Four lines headed
into the sun, can’t decide,
what to wear. Not to much -
just enough.  There!

Wally looks behind as he walks
at stenciled tracks that are his own,
fleeting marks of water, ice and snow -
water, cracking ice, and snow
he joys in stepping through.
I pointed his footprints out to him.
Once a footnote in our journey, 
now they are in every chapter, of every day,
in every chapter of every day
as is music and tea.

Earl Grey or chamomile?
Maple syrup or brown sugar?
Vanilla soy milk or 2 percent?
Wally points to Earl Grey, brown sugar and soy milk.
At the table I follow him,
stirring my tea into a whirl before each slurp and sip. 
He follows me, clinking our cups. 
He always smiles as we clink cups.
We stir, clink, smile, slurp and sip through tea.

I think while in the rocking chair,
Wally is a shining, rocking star.
He sits on the couch tuning his radio 
to our favorite station, Kool 108. 
We listen, rocking back and forth,
in perfect rhythm, song after song -
song after song, back and forth.
I sing too, laugh, tap my toes, 
sometimes conducting notes in the air.
Wally glances at me,
seeing happiness pouring out of me 
at happiness pouring out of him.

Wally is Mary's music man
and she, his sister, truer than blood.
She tells me of her dream last night,
while I put my coat, hat, and mittens on.
Wally and she were in conversation!
"Wally was talking!  We were speaking to each other!"
"Really? Mary, that's so wonderful!"
"I don't remember what he said.
I woke up and cried -
realizing Wally's talking was only a dream."
A beautiful, wishful dream.

Earth sees, senses,
holds your hand
through me.