when i go near the ocean i look first for Mama's face;
a Mama i never knew; our footprints lead to her door.

and autumn nights becoming evenings and dropping airs;
foisting spring rains of dowry owed; then collected.

pampas grasses grow close to thickets, but shun them;
netting clear profits from the thistles atop it's head.

as Japanese beetles learn swan-songs of new lovers;
the ancient pictographs give hints to the collision.

summer early-evenings carry proudly a shade of pink;
un-named by artist, un-painted except for the lilacs.

and a mouse scurries on the water's lips, looking at moons.
his pockets toting no change, no lint, only babies to be born.

somewhere a peasant woman plants, her child on her back sleeps.

06/15/2010

Posted on 06/15/2010
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