#258

quieter things.

things,
things in the morning,
of feet skimming cool tiles
and water rushing dimly behind walls - in hidden sanctuaries -
of white and yellow like cotton left on counters,
trembling as the trees dance

morning - again
to greet
with anticipation

gone is the gray,
the swaddled in their beds,
the resigned to silence

#257

the recent yesterdays
are gone in a mud haze:

feather; feather memory
light and soft
and busy in the wind -

i rest in meadows, i rest above roads with friends at hand
and sigh, and sigh a bit louder, and sigh to myself again.

she needs a good shaking, she herself could say
while unattached, while free and spiraling;
the supposed times of transparency
but times of work, and work within, and work again

blights and blunders past rear themselves up like stallions,
fiercely oppositional to cold and logic and the best intentions.

things go so very cold in such shadows. but warmth comes, creeps in, creeps so slowly in