I miss Lynnie Lynn because
I'm no longer a mashed potato
or a turkey or missie toe
and David's no longer a root beer float

I'm no longer a mashed potato
she, a rascally, ridiculous raccoon,
and David's no longer a root beer float
one of four musketeers is missing

she, a rascally, ridiculous raccoon,
who giggles and the whole room is smiling
one of four musketeers is missing
the one who helps her companions at their table

who giggles and the whole room is smiling
and she'd ask, "what are you going to do about me?"
the one who helps her companions at their table
she focuses when doing a 300 piece puzzle

and she'd ask, "what you doing to do about me?"
"We need to buy you another puzzle." I'd say
she focuses when doing a 300 piece puzzle
David and I are not blueberry muffins.

"We need to buy you another puzzle."  I'd say
I miss Lynnie Lynn because
David and I are not blueberry muffins
or turkeys or missie toes

Sometimes I look up
at apartments and wish
everyone had decks.

My pillow is indented, swirled
like a land-napping nautilus,
like a giant roly poly bug
of a cat.  Moon!

fear is spreading
like all the befores
and we are forgetting
the burried bones of millions
because we are magnets to fear

I write of hummingbirds, sky-loving gold finches,
a favorite tulip tree beside my house
and in my garden red-rose tomatoes
overflowing

while we are magnets to fear
and there are cages in my country and
children in them

Up and out, into the garden -
I take my first deep breath,
rest my hands in dirt,
my morning shower!

For breakfast I ate a perfect tomato
from my garden and a perfect mango
and drank a perfect cup of coffee
with coconut milk and a bit of honey.
I read a perfect daily poem
and took a perfectly refreshing shower.
Now, no matter what happens,
it's already a perfect day!
Even if I brake my leg,
it'll be a perfect brake.

Orion drums downstairs
composes upstairs on the piano
walks back and forth between -
feet on stairs, head in a cloud
of rhythm and melody.
I am, at 2am, a leaf
on the tree of time
trying not to feel the breeze,
yelling for him to be quieter.
My son is a bird.
I call from my pillowed head -
       "I am trying to sleep!
         I have to work!"
Sometimes it's hard to close your ears.
Wind is starting to quietly roar,
as it always does.
I better get up, let go,
listen and try to write
something
beautiful.