A wren, under a Maxfield Parrish midnight sky,
Breathed on beatifically by the wild sea breeze,
And bathed in the glow of a half-bright, bridal moon,
Very silent, very shy.
Brown birds wear a bold face, smoke gold pipes, dwell in cedar houses.
Imagined inadequacy bleeds into reality.
Autumn and the call of wild geese are far ahead, and may not come with September.
I have never loved summer until today.
Did I forget to follow the lavender, the rose, the two-day’s four-hundred-sixty-seven stella doras in their full-out happy, happy, love of being alive? Did I lose delight in blue? I want the eighteen sailboats in one patch of cove, the litter of visitors on the rocks, to mean as much to me as stillness and the cleanliness of all that is not human.
You win me over, you love that I thought I had understood, that I wanted to deserve, that I feared that I could lose by being honest.
An irritatingly bad haircut. Reminds me of my pride, and so I am able to listen. I may be comfortable cold, but I decide.
Charles Wesley, Charles Wallace, the 9th of 150 copies, thimbled cheeks, a honeyed right ear healing.
Paint, each stroke and line the longing of an unmet desire, a waiting, a patience, a pulling out of stiffened wooden drawers, and so blank paper.
But I have sweat and warm breath that fogs up the window.
I'll let violin complaints explain my spirit to a listening heaven. I still want to dance on the floor.
The astounding turnip is imprinted with my fingertips.
I'll sweep under the table in the morning.