If there is a failing, it is not in the figment, who is what it is.

Should I be
not a dream, a figment?
You chase me, little cat,
and I am but a speck floating
that no one else can see.

Will catching me bring you joy?
But how your face falls when
I am truly in your paws,
how quickly boredom unsettles
the unfathomable joy you had
when I was beyond your reach.

Was I more to you
than a speck, than a figment?
Did you think I would finish you,
that I was the last drop of paint
the painter forgot in painting you?
Or that I was an everlasting rat,
sure to please your never-ending hunger?

Should I be not a dream, or a figment?
Should I dare to be just a speck,
when you think to dream more of me?
I can give only what I am, little cat,
and that is but a moment of passing
interesting in a wall that
humans cannot fathom.

Lay your dreams, my hatchlings

Do not throw away your hopes and dreams--
they guide you away from the sea.

As children we trundle on the sand towards the moon
and lay our dreams in clutches, daring to hope
that some will survive to adulthood.
Few do.

But twenty-some years pass, and then
crawling, lumbering, we return, the nests
now empty, yet
somehow, one, two, four of those dreams
find us, join us, lead our way
back to the sea.

Do not throw away your hopes and dreams--
they guide you back to the sea, and become
the water in which you swim,
so that no matter how lost you become
you may always make your way.

Silence in the Office

I smell rose petals in the air
when I walk into the dull, dark office;
silence fills the halls, but I smell
hot coffee, rich and thick, percolating.
The cologne of the neighboring cube
overpowers the sound of his typing
until I hear nothing; the lightly burnt air
scent of the heater running fills a
hum-less room.

I sit, and work, in the silence,
bright colors jumping past my eyes.
Reds, greens, purples of ink
bleeding papers into Standard English,
while pastel blues and eggshell whites
backlight purple mardi gras beads
and turquoise posters of ocean scenes.

I sit, and work, in the silence
and wonder where everyone has gone,
in an office full of scent and color,
the dystopian quiet plays an anthem
to the tune of rising zombies.

Here comes the fall

I.

On the first day of fall, burnt leaves
actually taste okay, even if it's not
how I usually like my tea.

II.

The world sings year-long songs
and the lyrics change every so often.
As a child, the first day of fall was
the change from glimmering opal drops
in the morning grass to
the scent of cinnamon and leaves
in the morning air.

III.

Fall would depress, but
I can smell the State Fair approaching,
caramel apples and crowds so thick
my elbows already hurt, produce
piled high on tables and fried foods
that make my gut churn a month away.
The delight of my fall, the rambunctious
celebratory wake for summer.

Sencha and time

I scoop two teaspoons of sencha leaves
into the strainer--wait, I should have only
used one. But it'll still taste fine, so I
rumble my way down to the coffee machine
and pour the hot water into the empty mug,
leaves still waiting on my desk. Thankfully
that habit is strong enough, or I'd have burnt
leaves with bitterness under the roots. And
I wonder if it's worth it, morning, if it's worth
the heavy eyes and hold hands, today when I
imagine I still feel half-digested catfood under
my nails despite lots of soap, when the blinds
have been near savaged by orange fur, and
what sleep there was, was fraught with snippets
of the kind I was almost glad to be woken from.
No, I think, no it's not worth it. But since I'm
here anyway, I'll drink my sencha. Later, I'll
sit with the writing group and be glad;
the luxury of friendship and time with friends
is harder to afford without that paycheck, so
the "worth-it"ness of mornings changes the
farther I get from them.

image by Maiko Kinari Shincha, from 2010

It's the people that make home

I can't read the signs, but
I know what they say:
"Home, this way; 
city and work that way."
I can't read the signs, or
the menu, but I know what
I want, and where to go:
They looks so happy and so full,
the wait pushing the doors;
let's go there. That, on that table,
it looks delicious. What is it called?
I think I'll have that.
The father frowns at the
impudence of the stranger,
and the small son giggles and
laughs and points. The mother
touches the child's seat but smiles,
knowingly, and I think they
look a lot like my parents,
not by their faces but by how
they move and act. I am home
in a home not my own and
if the food tastes a little odd,
it is delicious and hearty and
there is so much reminding me
of home, I cannot remember to
feel homesick--except of course
the every now and then that I do,
because "familiar" isn't perfectly
the same, even if it's awful close.

Battle Lost

Forgive me, but
the garden can't be saved.

The squirrels made their
inroads as the cats sat
in the kitchen window,
watching and chirping,
cursing the lack of kitty doors.

The soldiers are willing,
but the generals do not
want fleas in the bed.

Washing Away

Standing on the sand watching the tide come in,
I wonder why I bothered drawing anything.
The doodles are rich, beautiful; I had no ink
no paper and no pen. But I had sand, lots
of sand. So I drew what I wanted in the cold
damp medium, and it was coils of life and richness,
a truth I'd forgotten I had within me. Now here
comes the tide, and no one will ever see it
on the beach on a day too cold to swim,
and it will be as if it had never been--
to all the world except to me, in whom the
memory has been planted, and begun to grow.

Watching the Sunset

Watching the sunset
colors spreading gold and coral
orange turning pink, that touch
of light that slices across patches
of shadows, illuminating in highlight
the treasure within the trees.
ratatatatatat

Hearing the birds songs
settle down for the night
and the laughing children
playing in the street--one
last call from mom before
they retreat.
ratatatatatatat

The salty brush of briney air
the last swift, hot breeze touched
by sea and sand over a shell-strewn
beach, cotton fluff pink and bright
against purpling blue of oncoming
night, darkening minute by minute
until the clouds seep to dark grey.
ratatatatatatat.

Watching the sunset
through lightning and storm
on a beautiful evening
parking lot people running
listening to children's laughter
thunder rattling sheets of rain
 in the warm seaside breeze
ratatatatatatatatat.

10-12 at 375F

I roll the dough
quickly, without taking care
to avoid rips--those I press
back together. The oven
preheats in the background;
I knew the temperature by heart.
Three of the four make it into
the pan. This is why I refuse
to buy cans of 8, because
I find them so delicious and
they never make it more than
an hour, unless I've saved you
one and you're too caught in
a game to save it from me, or
me from it--I'm not really sure
which that it goes--but if I said
it was yours, I'll leave it, and
it will last out the twitching
of the clock.

My love of crescent rolls
does not exceed my joy
at your smile,
but I wouldn't suggest you
decide to leave yours until
tomorrow.

A starduster would wipe away the starsong

You know when you wake up
out of a dream and find the dreams
have scattered your pieces over the sky;
when you wake up and try to gather
all those little pieces, and find most
except for one, which is crammed
under the bed or tucked beneath
the pillow?

And you finally find it and grab it,
but it's covered in stardust, and
no matter how you shake it off
you can't quite wipe it clean,
and so you put it in place
and go off to face the day,
but everywhere you go
there's still a little stardust
clinging to a piece of you.

Moonlight hits the river

I want to see
the world smile today--
I know; I know;
it's the end of the day.

But wouldn't it be nice
to drift to sleep and know
the moon casting her silver
glow over the Earth lights
upon a hundred-mile smile?

Instead of fireworks
or death works, or
bursting red air,
she sees as she crests
the curve of the world--

nothing brighter, nothing darker,
than that broad silver smile.

The true answer to the quest

Who am I?
         ->Ask not who, but what.
What am I?
        ->Ask not what, but why.
Why do I exist?
        ->Have you no sense? Ask not why, but how!
How do I exist?
        ->What matters how? Most important of all is not what nor why nor how, but simply "who."
So, who are you?
        ->Finally, a question worth answering. Let's discuss.

Cat in the sun

The stripes fall on the wall
and my eyes light up.
I'm pressed against the cool, white plaster
feeling the soft touch of sun
for the first time in months--
not that it's the first sunshine I've seen
in months
but rather that it's the first time
I've had morning sun in my home
as my last apartment was a cave
And this, though still mostly unsettled,
is my new home, and it
has sun
in the mornings,
which makes me happy.
The stripes move, brighten, and
I notice another patch on the floor.
Excuse me while I lay here for a while.

Delicious

Finding a taste sweeter than water
is a hallmark of either
taste-bud impairment
from sugar-poisoning,
most excellent tea,
or just foul water.

By Choice

It's not that I can't see a future without you--
it would be possible; I could make it work.
It just doesn't look as grand to me.
It's not that I can't survive without you--
I could; I'm more than a bit hardy.
I just don't want to need to try.
It's not that the world is dark without you--
but the lights are lovelier with you,
and I just don't want to go alone.

So, no, I don't need you in my life.
I just want you there. For all the rest of it.
Because I can flourish, survive, enjoy
all I have, by myself, and it would still be good--
I just choose not to, because I like what I see
better when you're in it.
Which is what I always wanted from love,
someone I chose to be with, not because
I had to, or needed to, or was afraid not to,
but because I wanted to.
There is no love truer than that.

Somewhat...

it's not
that the world hasn't changed.
Or that things aren't better,
because they are, somewhat.

But
the other day Dad and I were
talking politics, and Mom was
listening,
and after he went on about money
and how the world can't be fixed
without it, and lies and broken promises;
and I went on about unfairness,
and how politicians portray
women and act like women
are obstacles or less than
people; and Dad countered
with business and economy and
encouraging job growth would give
women power and money, and
I said it still didn't outweigh the
hate...
After that, when Mom caught
my eye and then grimaced and
with a sad voice said, "I never
thought I'd hear my daughter
fighting the exact same battles
I fought at her age," that was when
I knew
that darkness of soul doesn't leave
this Earth quietly, or quickly
but lingers long past its welcome.

And I'll remember, when my
daughters fight the same fight I
argue today--I'll remember that
no one told me I had to be a secretary
or that I shouldn't bother with college--
I'll remember that Dad married Mom
on purpose; that he helped teach me
to trust myself, to earn for myself,
to learn my own mind, and to make
my own world mine; I'll remember
things are better, but
at the same time, they're not fixed,
and probably won't be in a lifetime,
and that doesn't mean I've failed,
only that the world has, just a little,
just as it's also won, just a little.

Runny frosting and crumby cake

Drips of frosting
roll down the cracks
in lemon cake and pool
on the plate beneath. My
spatula scrapes the skin off
the cake, but the sweet lemon
taste can't be ruined by crumbs,
and if it looks a little worn, it's still
the loveliest taste.

After a restless night

One of those mornings
where dreams still crawl across the backs
of my eyelids and gravity sits too high
up my chest--
When sleep was fitful and clingy, and
morning came too early, taunting in her
bloody, slow approach, with her rays
of first light gleaming slowly over a horizon
I'd rather not have seen, and her colors
hidden by a snatch of last-minute sleep
that was in turn obscured by the buzzing phone.
One of those mornings.
I creep along in traffic with a million other
ants heading to our respective hills, and
feel the weight of too-short sleep in my arms,
at the back of my head, in my stomach floating
too close to the back of my throat in the shade
of the trees that line the highway. But then
the road bends, and the trees part. A slice
of early light slips through, and trickles up
my arm to wash my face of early shadows,
pouring warmth along my cheekbone.
One of those mornings, but now I think
I'm okay.

Raindrops, Whiskers, Kettles and Mittens

I'm holding a sweet in my hand--a chocolate
square, with salt and caramel, wrapped in
dark, dark blue foil. I hold it behind my back,
scooting into the room on tiptoe feet, and
wrap my arms around your waist, opening
my hand so you see the chocolate in my
palm. You turn from digging through your bag
and grin, and rip it open (it takes three tries
to get it fully free) and break the piece of
chocolate into two, munching on one half,
feeding me the other.

You probably don't think much of it,
because we do this all the time, but it's
one of my favorite things, to bring you
a piece of chocolate, and earn a smile
in return. Plus getting half the chocolate
is a nice bonus, too. And soon we'll watch
our favorite cartoons, and I'll put my
head on your chest and hear your
heartbeat, the taste of chocolate
lingering on my tongue, and think
I'm pretty happy doing that, too.

And then you beat me into the water.

I'm watching the cloud scoot by;
behind it an overcast sky pushes
slowly the other way. The grey
over lighter grey
seems awkward and dark above
the lake, out of context compared
to the sun-scarred planks under
my bare toes. You'd think I'd want
to go in before I got wet, but why?
I came to swim, and the lake isn't
getting any dryer because the sky
is a little wet.

As long as there's no thunder,
I'll slip into the water and tug myself
into place in the inner tube, letting
my head fall back against the plastic
plumped with fifteen minutes of
near-hyperventilating breathing
interspersed with long, slow, deep
breaths to keep myself not dizzy.
My toes will drift along the silky, silty
mud of the lake bottom, tiny clam
shells half-buried, until I dig them
out absently. Or I'll feel the slimy
pull of weeds, the water fronds that
clog the bottom from four feet deep
to the middle of the lake--they're
why nobody ever swims alone.

I'm in my tube. No worries. You
don't have to come in; just watch
from the dock as I swim, sheltered
under the gazebo. You don't have
to get wet.
Unless you want to.

One evening after work

Sitting in the front seat of the car
with the door open and my feet in the grass,
petrichor tells me to look to the sky
and finally I notice the clouds, leaking.
It's just one of those days, really,
where sitting in the car is easier than
getting out and going inside, where
sleepiness weighs on well-slept limbs
and the difference between sunshine and grey
is only the unnoticed lack of blindness
from the rear view mirror on the drive home.

The most lovely of toys

Despite the hair falling out,
rubbed thin from countless years,
and the scars from a hundred surgeries,
none well-healed or invisible,
she's the first to be hugged.

She treasures her scars,
rushes into the hands
that lead to her end,
because that's where she finds
her soul--made from the pieces
of soul that children give her
as they grow. Already she has
much of mine, seeds planted;
they'll add theirs and by the
time she's laid to rest in the
wastebasket, she'll have
a soul like no other's, built
from the seeds of every heart
poured into hers.

Front Page

There's a newspaper on the sidetable.
We don't read it. Instead, we laugh.
You pass me the video-game controller
and I drop off a cliff, step into enemy fire,
dance with a koopa, trap myself between
two kinds of death and find a third,
and then settle down to kill the Big Bad.

Someone shared me a YouTube link
of all that's wrong with the world; a
horrible tragedy that we really should
know about. I read the headline and
close it. And then you start slicing tofu
while I hug you from behind, keeping
my fingers clear of your knife, with
the ground pork sitting nearby your
only cutting board (I must get you
another one.)

It's just that the good things are so small-seeming
and never make the front page, or
get on the news. So I can't read the
news without crying, and when you're
with me I feel like smiling, so I'm afraid
that if I ruin that smile by reading news
I'll become accustomed to crying instead;
there is so much good in the world, that
I think it should be my headline, my day's
front page--
starting with you.

I can read the rest later.

Sky kiss

Laying on my back I admire
the grey-cotton veil that
shields a tiny circle made of
white-fire-gold.

I can't watch for long but sometimes
the sky offers that fleeting glimpse of
immortality and perfection--things that
burn--
I can't bring myself to look away until
the last possible second, when the
just-right cloud drifts just
too far.

My eyes close and the world turns
cherry-gold
behind my eyelids, as she steps away
from her veils and kisses my cheeks.
I can't bear even this soft touch for
long; I'm too pale and half an hour
will sear me pink and sore.

But sometimes the blue sky
calls to me, and I lay on my back
in itchy grass, with no regrets
for the thousand tiny bug bites
or the strange pokes of leaves--
just for the brush of a
sky-kiss on my cheeks.

Yearning for blueberry muffins

Three blueberries sit on the branches,
a bit under-ripe.
I think about the best time to pick them
and wonder if we can go berrying tomorrow
but they won't be ready yet, and besides, they're
just the first ones to come out. Better to wait until
the sun has driven them past the edible point,
when their cousins have come out, and they
themselves have swollen to blue perfection,
then more, until they nearly split their skins
and then deflate like balloons with a tiny,
tiny hole near the tie.

Sometimes I think blueberries are filled
not with juice and plant flesh but rather
with sunlight, pure and unadulterated,
and if they go unchecked or unpicked
too long they look as if they'll surely burst.
The deflation is always a surprise, but
half the time the birds get them before
they can even get there. And even the
slightly-sour blueberries taste sweet;
I think it's all that concentrated sunshine
that pops out when cooked with sugar,
and coats everything around them.

Only, the first berries
always have to swell and wither
if you want most of the berries you
collect to be sweet and delicious. A
little wasted sunshine
is the price of summer-long sweetness.
Besides, it's hardly right to feast
until the bug spray can dissuade
the ticks from coming to feast, too.

Cold pizza

There's something indulgent about cold pizza.

Cold congealed cheese on the tongue backs up against spicy italian sausage, or else peppery pepperoni, or just tart tomato. It lingers on the tongue, all spice and chill, and draws you in deeper, holding the flavors all the longer, despite the compression of the scent that supposedly depresses taste--but somehow doesn't.

Not much like the hot, soft texture of a fresh pizza. The cheese is liquid goo when it's fresh, a pudding-like consistency when mixed with the crispy dough.

But the fresh version lacks the memories, I think, that make the cold pizza refreshing. Who hasn't sat on the sofa on a lazy morning, watching TV and nomming a leftover slice, still lingering on the memories of the friends and company from the night before? There is, too, the delightful naughtiness of the extra five minutes, even on busy workdays, in the morning from time not spent preparing cereal and making sure the milk is back in the fridge. Morning time is such a premium that even one minute is precious, let alone a few. Three extra seconds of staring out at the trees bathed in morning light, wishing you stand in them, and pass by the day--those three seconds stick with you all day, popping out of the desk when you least expect.

Maybe it's just me. But I find that pizza cold is almost preferable to pizza hot. Just shy thereof, I suppose, because day-afters are only slightly less lovely than day-ofs, with all the memories plus quiet, and the only thing lacking is the ability to bring in that one last point you wouldn't have remembered to add anyway. Still, things fresh are better, inherently, than things aged (unless they're supposed to be aged, like beef or wine or cheese); good times are best fresh, and slightly dulled with age, no matter how slight the passage of night.

Communal fruit bowl

Something about oranges
appeals to me today. I don't much feel like
having a banana or an apricot
(although the apricots are supposed to be
really sweet this time of year).

Taking out a sweet orange,
I push a knife through pulp and skin to split it
into six perfect (okay, unequal)
sections, that I then pop one-by-one into my
mouth, savoring each juicy bite.

Felix walks in and tells me I
shouldn't be eating oranges, because although the team
all chipped in, I'm only allowed
apples, because I said I wanted some on hand and they're
from my home state. Obviously.

So because he's watching, I take
an apricot and bite into it, and find they're really
quite sweet indeed, and juicy, and
the drips running down my chin soak into my shirt,
which is the best way to eat apricots.

Turns out I'm in an apricot mood
after all--it's delicious. I give him an apple,
which he doesn't eat, poor sap;
this year's Pink Ladies are super-sweet, too,
and I'll eat it later, when I feel like it.

Too much

She puts her purse on the floor. Finding a spot
between spots of rice and quinoa,
drops of aioli and old arugula leaves
is a challenge, but the purse sits clean(ish)
between her toes
in a restaurant she can't afford to eat at
too often.

But then, more often would be too much:
she has half a Cornish hen in the fridge
and a bag of kale she really should steam
before the week is up. And the strawberries
came from the farmer's market; she's
been craving ramen, which she'll shore up
with a couple of eggs and some peas.

More often would be too much,
she thinks,
and rescues a stick of hot fresh bread
from the basket, waiting for her friend
to join her for their weekly fancy feast.
Tonight will be wine; tomorrow
tap water.

Squirrel stew

I'd got it in my mind to try some squirrel stew:
the article on the local free magazine
had a yuppie reporter claiming it was pretty good
Your dad shoots squirrels on the yard as a hobby;
he thought it odd but he stuffed the body in a bag
under ice, with the guts all torn out so our hands
would stay nice and sweetly clean. We could have
argued that we wouldn't fritz out at a little blood,
but he was trying to be nice, and besides, we really
didn't know which parts stayed and which went,
and how to do it best. But he did.

You tossed in a vat some vegetable broth
(the base, we thought, would bring out
the wild flavor), and I added some potatoes,
because stew; plus a few daikons, because
they were about to go bad. I set it on the stove
and we chopped the meat off the bone; it was
young and we'd have felt worse about it all if
the squirrel hadn't kept insisting on eating your
flowers, or if your dad hadn't planned on
killing it anyway, and just leaving it to rot where
the crows fly thick. But it was young.

I wasn't hungry, not really, by the time we'd
worked our way through the third game of
Monopoly. The cracker crumbs covered the table
and a little chocolate was left in the Easter Basket,
but not much. But we'd decided we would try it,
except maybe we should have used a recipe--I think
there were some online, only we didn't bother
to look, despite the long, old tradition of eating
North Carolina squirrels. Somehow I'd made it
bitter, and it tasted foul; the meat was fresh but
maybe the daikons really had gone bad.

We decided not to make squirrel stew again.
At least, not without a recipe--
on the whole
I felt
rather dissatisfied.

Our favorite tea party

Like bullet blasting from a sawed-off shot gun
he explodes into the yard,
barking and disintegrating every neatly-laid leaf.
The tea set we'd carefully arranged for the ladies
and the recently planted buckets of petunias,
once nestled between spring tulips under the redbud,
are now splattered over the patio
with hand-painted shards of porcelain the fragmented
bones of the guest of honor, the oolong tea from China.

The squirrel, meanwhile, twitches her tail in the oak tree
before flicking into her bolthole, cheeks stuffed with
recently recovered proto-tree.
I offer my cousin, visiting from Seattle, a dry-cleaning;
she spots off her formerly white shirt with a dirt-streaked napkin
and pats him on the head, consoling him for the lost catch.

Scraps

Today I found a memory
written on a scrap of notepad paper
stuffed into a folder in a corner of my desk,
never quite forgotten but
never quite on the top of memory.

I've waxed long and wide over
nights on the beach, with moon high overhead
and stars shining down to create a warmth
where none otherwise exists;
I've been eloquent over overall-clad waiters
in country restaurants with the best
fried chicken, ever, the end.
But for the little scrap of memory,
tucked away and partly crumpled,
I've never spoken a single word.

It's not big; it's not pivotal
or bright or loud or shiny.
Just a scent of reflection
on an ordinary day
a scrap of thought passing through
recorded and then crowded out
by momentary worries
and monumental vices;
yet it's a nice little memory,
and the smile it gives me
is warm and cheery, if quiet.

I think I'll tuck back in where I found it
between the folder and the drawer wall;
maybe I'll pull it out again when--
Well, I don't know. When a little scrap
of something nice
but not too grand
is what I need,
which I suppose is most of the time,
so perhaps
only when my fingers find it
and remember for me
that quiet, warm, and cheery
is awfully nice.

Syrup fingers

We had maple syrup on our pancakes for breakfast.
Rich and thick and gooey, and we ate it with our fingers
because the fork-box got caught under the cleaning stuff
and the laundry detergent leaked through two boxes, and
we didn't really want to wait for the dishwasher to finish.

But the pots and pans and bowls were fine; we ran those
last night before crashing on the frame-less mattress
(and we'll keep it that way so the cats won't claw into
the box springs again, like they did last summer).

So with our two spoons too large for the silverware box
we made pancakes in a freshly-washed pan, and
sat on the floor beside the newly assembled table
for which we still don't have chairs, and ate
with our fingers syrupy pancakes, sticky and sweet.

I say I'm getting grimy and icky and you say it's nice;
my hair clumps and sticks to my face; I laugh, but you say,
"You're beautiful, always beautiful" and then you pause,
blush and say, "I know that's corny. But I mean it."

And you're looking at me like the cat does when she's
just knocked over my glass of water by accident (not
on purpose; she's never guilty then). And it's funny because
if you'd tried to say it I'd have rolled my eyes, thinking
it was corny and dumb and you were trying too hard.

But sometimes you forget that things like that have
been said before. And when you say it like it's brand new, or
it forces its way out like a hay-fever sneeze, it's wonderful; and
when you forget, I hear the voice of love, and fall for you again.

On falling rain

we are the flowers
blooming from the earth watered with the rain of tears
and the thunder of laughter, the lightning-strikes of love
adolescence's flashes fading into the after-storm of delight
young adulthood the crazy 1000 days of sun we never
quite think of as a drought, despite
every rainless storm of held-back tears, promising ourselves
that this time we won't cry, and laughter's thunder the shield
that holds us back from watering the sky.
Then comes maturity and the rains fall again; we admit
crying's not a sham or shame but a sign we're singing still.
The toys we set aside, we now hold up with joy
let the rain fall, for it makes us strong and helps us
bloom a second time, and every day after, as we fill our roots
with laughter, tears and love; the storms of youth that never
rained we now see built our souls, but the rain's what keeps us
strong.

In the charging storm, let it rain, let it thunder; bring on
the lightning. Because without the snows there are no
flowers.

Three thoughts, from the archives

#1
A cloudy morning
is coffee without scent,
chocolate without sugar,
or music without melody.
A foggy morning, though,
is the lid on the teapot--
so that the scent is stronger,
the sweet is richer,
and the rhythm smoother.

#2
Did you know
that sun-dried tomatoes
are made without sun?
Pity that;
I am sure they miss the experience,
but at least they can still be enjoyed
when the lights flicker on.

#3
The dawn and I would get along better
if we saw one another less,
and yet she is the most beautiful
of all the beings I know.

There are a lot of trains

There will come a day
when you look at your dreams
and find you don't know them.

This will be a day, perhaps,
when you say you are living them;
you turn the covers and flick the lights,
and what you see isn't what you thought
you had once imagined, but rather
a memory, fleeing, of living through trials
that always you thought you'd never see.
And these are the things, the survivals,
the setbacks, the blood and tears--
these are the dreams you didn't know,
deeper, stronger, more fulfilling than
the ones you thought you wanted.

Or maybe the day will come
and you'll look out the window and say,
"I have no dreams," because the ones
that buoy your soul and fling you to heaven
seem impossible, unattainable or unreal.
Funnily enough you'll discover the dreams
you never thought you dreamed are
in fact the ones you wanted most,
and that you are living as you think;
the everyday humdrum you want to forget
is its own beautiful, unstoppable adventure.

Or maybe you never did call them dreams,
but rather goals; and having obtained one goal,
set another, until the sky came within reach.
Now, with the sun close to your fingertips,
you find it burns; but the pain drives you more,
because it's not the goal you wanted, but
the struggle of which you dreamed.

Then again, maybe you still have them
the same as they ever were,
putting them away on the "maybe one day" train,
which daily leaves the station, and daily
you watch it go with unshed tears.
These are the dreams that sit so thick,
so solid in your eyes, you cannot see beyond:
the cataracts of the soul, the thick and salty sea.
These are the dreams that hide the dreams
you really ought to know; and when asked
what your dreams are, you'll say, "One day,"
and stand watching a train pull away, as
behind you your real dreams frolic and play,
or bleed and beg and laugh and help you suffer.

There will come a day when,
being asked about your dreams,
you may realize those dreams aren't what
you always thought you should call dreams.
Unplanned dreams, the tears of hearts,
the soul of nurture and the spirit of growth--
the dreams that matter, that few ever call
a dream come true.