this my dears... my dear
friend is a
test, a small sketch,
a burial of teeth,
a dusty reunion with
the sea, with the
artful ball and socket
fetish of the ground corridor
sweet grass, arthritic warming-
afternoon, out here in the fresh
field she changes her hair
dark to light, to reflect
the counting of days, the
tabulation of moons,
a crackle of thunders light
beyond this stressed shattering
this document of her luminescing,
the feet find nesting
the wings and
scull of a water bird,
like perfection, forming
an elegant algebra, a form
angular, closed complete
so close to a formula that
x is blown away like a
dandelion seed- drifting
first west, then southerly, riding
buoyantly through these changing winds
waiting for the lull
in to which it will be sown
and find purchase in new life
and brightness of being.
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