Winter trees wait for the sunset
To plead the debt
Earth owes the sky-
Dark limbs stretch high.
Sharp branches poke the golden glow
The poor below
Wish, work, and weep
To coin and keep.
But frost sits where no gold can stay
The next cold day-
A silver peace
For winter’s lease.
we’re dragging our shells across asphalt,
turtle-crossing the world.
in the impulse of nature we’re caught,
across dark crusts we’re hurled.
we hope to reach the double golden bars,
sunsets’ cheaply painted lines-
that gleam of hope between the cars,
the finish line that blinds.
a shattered shell marks suicide-
the journey’s nothing less,
but the creeping hastens the divide
between the cursed and blessed.
we travel alone in our rough-aged skin.
we strain our bones to cross the bars.
we grasp the gold only to begin
the treadmill journey that is ours.
Braid me a March clover necklace-
I don’t need a flower on each stem.
Your dancing fingers bring me luck-
With silver spider’s thread you weave a window.
Give me presents green and wild
And I’ll fold the sweet wind into a fan.
Kiss the spring clouds with our air-fan
And I’ll lasso the apple trees with our necklace.
We’ll be soft, gentle, and wild,
Blowing each dandelion from its stem,
Framing our faces with an ivy-leaf window,
Smiling horseshoes of good luck.
Our hands, four leaves of unplucked luck,
Our breath the scented season’s fan,
Our eyes a painted puddle-window,
A gem in nature’s fragrant necklace
Which wraps its bright blooms around the stem
Of a thin, newborn world, prematurely wild.
In like a lion, March wanders wild.
Heel-clicking, dancing like a leprechaun’s luck,
Gustily ripping flower from stem.
Under the rain showers, wet grasses fan,
Sparkling and twisted like a long-chained necklace.
Early March beats like a bird against a window.
But raging weeks have a short window
March’s beauty is not all fierce and wild.
While sharp breeze like a necklace
Chokes the first of March, late weeks’ wisps of luck
Soothe the harsh sting, still the fan.
Soft lamb’s ear petals smile from roughened stem.
March is our month- petal, root, and stem.
We see the year through its bright window.
Through the seasons we fan
Ourselves with its wonderful wild.
You and I, the March clasp of luck,
Linking together spring’s silver necklace.
My necklace of green stem,
Your breezy luck that weaves a window,
Framing the whispers wild, watching friendship fan.
When I see the shy pink blossom of a tree,
I scoff at black-and-white photography.
We see the blush
The colors we forgot we grew into.
We meant to
Shake the dried petals
Away from the binding,
But the blinding, aging sun-flash
Won’t stop reminding
Us of the shadows on the dial
We fade as we capture
We develop into masters
Our slaves’ blood the gray ink
Glossed in our history book portrait.
Huddle all the dark,
Sharp things of the world.
The bird womb breeds
Beaked fury that scurries
On Swiss-army knives,
All blades bared.
Like sharp treasures
Their cries send needles
Through veins, trains
Whistle more subtly
Than the winged refrains
Of my flightless fear.