i stumble
over–
most anything
she says..
to lighten
greys,
her southern
drawl-
my parasol on
downpour
days.
mindfulness
walking,
no..
strolling,
arms swinging-
not folded,
heart pounding
feet rollin’-
bones jerked
and joints
jolted.
tomorrow wakes
me before
i’m done with
now,
then sorrows
shake me..
for what today
would not
allow.
stirring a
tea,
watching bubbles
mingle-
dreaming of dancing
with you..
as though it just
came true.
filling the
chair-
but not really
there..
are better places
to be,
like laid
out
by
placid
sea.
we meet beneath
sheets
to breathe
same air..
to reach same
heights..
to see each
other–
without
light.
butter drips from
tender fingers,
salty skin for
rolling in-
on picnic
sunday,
by the river,
lovers on a late
morn swim.
dandelion
yellow,
in sky’s the
eye
that never
blinks,
should be feeling
mellow-
yet all i do
is think
of more vivid ways
to capture
nature’s
cheer
in words that can’t
compare
to being
here.
storyteller, do share
another-
while i fade into
slumber
deep..
sleep once the
stranger..
finds me
weak.
damage done
and swept,
regrets outraged
and wept,
still wiping sweat
from lips-
incase another
ill word
slips.
still mopping up
my mess.
till floor’s no
longer
wet-
what i give
is what
i get.
hands in the garden 
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