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.
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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.
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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.
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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.