Poem

1.

On the edge, near but not entering

the colors of a California garden

I sat with flowers, white pink and red, as they too tightened with and sweat the sun.

When curtains pull back silence,
when breathing replaces the breeze –

my bones up and leave, never to return to my body.


2.

Sometimes we make things just for the hoping, to remember
such as it is –

‘such as it was’

and also sometimes, we invent ourselves in a place
like someone's tall tale that we pretend is our own
and that place becomes always
and invented in it, we then become forever.


4.

It can easily be a love poem , a shape in the clouds
and it can easily turn into a plane passing beneath them,
to a bird landing near a trellis bench, shaking and startling.


5.

Mine is when blue flowers were falling, when I thought
this is unique –

‘this is a sign’

and I had known no place before it

and it knows no place but me.