Wolves Going to Picnic

I woke, and resisted the urge 

to really turn over to face the empty plains of our bed. 

Instead I imagined turning over. . 

to see the edges of your lashes, 

sweeping down towards your cheek, 

like foothills to a snowy plain.

A pack of silver wolves racing by,

padding softly through the snow.

They are wearing pointed hats,

and silk grey jackets:

they are going to picnic,

they are going to tea.

It is then, that my fingers brush your cheek,

sending the little wolves tumbling

with the soft clatter of tea cups

little white saucers, spinning.

A bit of spilt oolong 

(for that is what wolves drink)

soft and warm as my whispered

"good morning my love"

Hilarity Followed

I think perhaps it was the brisk weather last night. 

I dreamt of standing in front of Bronwyn, 

nervously waiting to meet the beautiful woman 

who also wanted to meet me!

Your playful eyes were sunlight and blue sky

draped with lamplight bangs

wrapped in the cool autumn air

I remember finally getting to kiss you

tenderly at first,

then quickly with wild wanting

We were famine and our lips the feast

The sweet devouring of our tongues

All the world fell away

as I got to kiss you the way I always meant to

and the hilarity that followed

One afternoon

One afternoon, we ran away from it all. . .

Projects spinning on their rims

Deadlines, cooling like crusty magma

We let it all go to voice mail.

Hand in hand, we ran, drove, flew

to where valleys envelope us,

like apple rinds coiled around the foothills

sweetly fragrant flames, rusting in the wind

The sunlight is our trumpet, bright as brass

big as the smiles we use to fill each other

great sails of light. . . our sun on a string

we face each other, and let all shadows

fall behind.

Something Absolution

The warm glow of the world 

spun around us like a scarf,

our toes jumping lively,

our noses touching, touch

I am flying in the blue openness of your eyes

and though we may spin faster, ever faster

we are pulled ever closer

by something's absolution. . .

The rising ocean, 

will catch the falling rain

inevitable. . .

Folding

It was so strange walking up to your door last night. . . 

it is as if the pavement is peeling away as you prepare to leave.

Carpeting retracts from the stairs
like a cat's tongue curling back
after a yawn.

The lights flicker,
every bulb is a little candle's flame
walls thin, like old playing cards
quivering in the wind.

Window blinds waver like watery eyes
for they recognize what comes.
The trees outside shed their clothes. . .
The feathers to your wings.

Take my hands my love
Let us race like our heart beats
to our next adventure
As the street folds closed,
like a wet, black fan.

Canopy of Golden Plans

Love is funny. . . 

It is patience,

Sitting by a field

tending the sprouting green

as it layers over the remains 

of every prior season

to see what colors arise

to paint name

a pink tremor on your lips

the cloudy blue cocktail,

stirring in you eyes

or a canopy of golden plans

in dreaming the next adventure

But we are also delving

changing and shifting

picking through earth's pockets

for the unexpected

a timeless day

when we lighten our burdens

or the perfect corner

of my arm for you to rest

Dandelion

Every word I write, is a love letter

to things I can never touch again

Every idea is a ship launched

from the sandy shore of the now

We kiss with forgetful tongues,

As hands renew an embrace

Friends recalled in warmth

Lovers rejoined in darkness

For though the present prints memories

as sheet music for waterfalls

When we meet. . . deseo mía

steam churns, from our presses

white sheets, smoke, crisp and burn

intricately inked, endlessly possible

I am a dandelion in the cold desert

before our rolling, nuclear tidal wave