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a field of poppies

16 Aug

you said

your poetry is

like the old mexican

love songs my

uncle used to

sing along to

in the kitchen

dancing with his

spoon

i imagined a smaller

you

a you who enjoyed

dancing

a you sitting on

the wood floor

cross legged

not yet the

you who is smoke

and

ash

underbrush

14 Aug

never in a life

though the search

was long

did she believe

that a mountain

could fall in love

with

a tree

so close were the two

it was if the mountain

was impaled

on her very

tree lover

never did she know

(though songs were sung)

that a fox-faced

winged thing would ask

how long have

you been

a healer

with a blackstrap

molasses

voice

no one explained

that love would

be wild berries

on the vine

diverging

rivers

deep caverns

flourishing

with

trust

poppies

Protected: from the swampland

11 Aug

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Protected: accidental beacon

8 Aug

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Protected: from the inkwell

7 Aug

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6 Aug

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3 Aug

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3 Aug

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Protected: from the willow tree

31 Jul

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31 Jul

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