geranium pillow

there's dirt under my fingernails
it must be spring again.
survive another winter and
there's pulling weeds to dull the pain
i take out two season's growth
of shepard's needles.  shake dirt
from the tangle of  roots, revealing
ruly mops of hair that strangle  grasses
leaves woody stems that hurt bare feet and summer's coming
i long to go barefoot
on a grass path through a garden
i planted. even if
this land is rented even if
 time's an illusion
i'll be rid of closer than childhood

i have not leapt enough this year.
here's a crick, let's jump.

 lili says gramma
you have so many flowers!
wind blows their white skirts
flirty with bees. i like the tall
purple ones, imagine them
in place of the needles.

it was the year of spoonbills
bright pink flowers
flew by, landed in our pond
waded in the shallows, heads down.

it's not walden but any
oasis under the jetway
is a tiny miracle. like how
we found each other or the way
we haven't split
in protonic collisions following
tachyon predictions

it's not that i want someone
else, just you without the history.
you told me this on the way out the door.
i balked . came up for air.
then find you and repeat it.

how do you let the river form you? resist.
to float to sea requires buoyancy and release
if a tree snags you, untangle.



i met a man that ate a teaspoon of diatomaceous earth per day.
it's the clay. it pulls out poisons. there are shells in my garden.
i have a bleder and a recipe.

he was a christian scientist. reality as illusion. no death.
seasons as time keeper for a mock up of
the all and nothing.  however, ahem, there is
this little delusion we have to work against. pray your pain away.
so they say religion can be such
a sweet marketplace. consequence of something to be.




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