The less I write

the farther I stray

from wonder,

lost in the desert

of apathy, thirsty

for inspiration.

 

The more I wander

through the dust,

parched, my voice

shrivels, unable to cry

for help, beg

for mercy

Before fingers can nudge

his delicate legs

 

toward freedom,

he panics,

 

mistrusting anything

outside himself,

 

believing he

is strong enough

 

to escape the sink

all by himself

 

even though

he’s been trying,

 

slipping, sliding

for the past hour,

 

gaining nothing

but exhaustion,

 

entrapping himself

in a sticky web

 

of fear

and pride

Next time I will be

snail or turtle, with home

on my back

Listen

to crows

laugh,

to geese

strum ukuleles,

to doves

chant prayers.

 

Listen

to your mind

scold

this fantastic

foolishness,

listen

to your heart

shout

at your mind,

You know nothing.

If only the blemishes

from our mistakes,

foolish choices,

thoughtless acts

could be puttied,

sanded flat,

scrubbed,

then covered

in a glossy new color.

So full, so fast

carrying answers to questions

not yet asked

 

Talking quickly

with much to say

if only we listen

 

Spilling past lines

meant to contain her: courage

to push beyond limits

Possibility,

mystery,

madness,

all stirred into

the perfume

of delight,

evoking the

ticklish sense

of something

about to change.

Ruflled silk blouses

waiting to be flaunted

by fairies

 

Nature’s confetti

tossed in celebration

of life

 

Trees’ prayers

offered unto something higher

land below

 

So small

yet so determined

to become something big

 

Tiny parachutes of hope

floating,

carrying faith

Where is the wand

that turned purple paintbrushes

into silk scarves?

 

What magic words

were whispered

into dawn’s open heart?

 

To whom do the clever hands

and numinous voice

belong?