language borrows rhythm
from rhythm
and rarely gives it back.
the cardinals in the garden
have a game for keeping what is
most important hidden
i want to memorize their calls
their patterns of flying
their protection strategies
and then get distracted by
the green surround or
the way the
wind feels
under the springtime sun
the laughter
that i seek again
the longing and the
fatigue of longing
the irises in bloom
are regal and stoutly
like violet blue sphinxes at the
mouth of the pathway
in the later phase
the earth is not there
sometimes
but the moon is
whittling each thought into
being until they become
knowable
dreams
dreams are a cliche of dreams
are a cliche of dreams
mostly i just want to see
them
quiet and still for a moment
and be something
more than what I am