words and more words.

the willow weeps branches dance fingertips stroke designs on soil

It is nectar And I, the wasp who turns into a stingerless bee Buzzing Shaking off the evening's misdeeds

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A push From the mattress, sleep's peak of a hill, first stumbling Then rolling, descending Until breaking the plane of a hotspring that washes and wakens

The spark of those moments That ingnites a morning's bright flame Piping, a tongue perhaps burning An engine, sending pistons pumping and churning

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"A good day," I say to that fiery Sun on the horizon "This is simply the start," she replies But you've got a fighting chance —the afternoon will be left to you

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Mother, she has such an incomparable palette A spectrum of living colour on her brush

Small petals: pink, purple, white, yellow, red Hues that have never been named

Skies ever-changing in hues of gray and blue Constantly transitioning before our eyes The grasses beneath our feet in bold electric green Hiding earthy browns, gray granite, in her soil

She dabbles with the species, iridescence, infrared Camouflage, recognition by their loves

Oh, what would it take to capture every pigment? To display her art in museums for our eyes see

_ _

when we meet for tea, a tree ring grows. may we live as a sequoia.

always, ever, running from each other

but the distance never grows

around, again, we go

Tuned out the rumble strips Torn down the leaves of weeping trees to silence the rustle Dug down into the dirt to escape the smoke of the forests afire

Distraction, ignorance, caution, avoidance, protection

Worries that you've left the tank dry Worries that all you still see is monochrome gray Worries that your absence will not merit an entry in a registry

If that was the end Let's start again

I'll sleep on the couch as though I've never met you A stranger, crashing solely by your grace Yours like a newborn babe, I'll find a way to stay, to insinuate,

We'd walk side-by-side, no matter how slick and rough the trail Tensely gripping hands to keep each other from falling off the line Never letting go, to capture obsession, capture our starry fate

I'd find your soft lips once more, beginning anew Enticed by the scent of vanilla and ylang-ylang Haul you off to a cocktail bar for another first date

my morning coffee, when we're apart, I make it on my own.

my morning coffee, when she's near, tastes of her love.

pt. 1.

"good" and "fine" unknown grapes into a blend of "red" wine.

perhaps I use them too often but sometimes a mediocre stalk of grass is better than a verdant vine.

pt. 2. (a continuation)

that said, when it comes to the act of love I will readily admit that they simply do not suffice.