Lucky to be caught in focus and present,
rather than lost in the back draft,
far from little green bulbs,
this feather flew like an arrow to my hand.
Passing through, scoring my palms,
eating my shell to fight with all,
that would hold me back from laughter,
a twist of humor hanging from my cup.
tunnel to the lower right
This tree came out poorly, so instead I used some liberal computer editing to make it look as it does.
One species doesn't want to admit the sky is getting dark.
It's you in twenty years I think of,
I'm not certain, but concerned,
of what your life will feed on,
and what you will bring to light,
or stash to the darkness.
See, it's been twenty years,
and though I don't remember it all,
I know the feeling of being swung around,
and of a weight keeping me from rising,
like the paper under the sway,
of its paper weight.
I can not remember if I have asked,
for anything, but I know what you have called for,
that which I have faithfully echoed,
like a child repeating without meaning,
beckoning again and again to make up for the mystery.
The knocking of my bare knuckles,
still echo as I reach for a door,
though it may not be the best place,
I have found this neighborhood, a development,
and my feet have carried me seeking my own threshold.
I feel, and I do not feel the same,
about this strip of wood,
that would hold my dwelling,
whether from flooding out,
or caving to the world,
however I see it in the moment.
Shadow of my shadow,
though I do not see it,
with its slender fingers,
pointing along the eclipse edge,
seeking to escape its cape.
Out of control,
its sights tremble,
like an action film,
conjuring quicker breath,
fighting sort with brevity.
