Wasps thrive on the porch
of my parents. They are
allowed to be
who they are:
to nest;
to fly.
And when behind me
the door closes
The camera
does not lie
but I must
Silence is
eerie,
the
way it smells
like rain
They had heard how harmony feels
in the skin,
Tiny trunks are curious twigs to the gray timbers
portaging great bellies back
silently in to the bush
with the breeze.
A history of water, color, and oil
I am this fossil old as time.
The moon inhalestonight -- inspiration in reverse:
it sucks the soul
from the shore and the field
from the grass, the cypress
Morningincensed, inhaled.
Joss sticks smolder --
ashen dawn's dragon dreams
haunt.
At the bird market
we sang our songs and saw who harmonized