ode to the sweep of the fallen,

to the quiet hammocks buried under leaves.
in my scantily clad tree i keep watch over an aerial memory

that pulls on the others it's stitched to.
leaf cleaving to leaf.

in the shadowy underfoot.


so spiked with punch.

now the beets are boiling, cheekbone bright.

i wish we were required
to idle and bask

at least one hour a day,

i wish i could distill one ounce of perfume
out of everything before it escapes me.


Anonymous said...


how it sounds like a different you.

the backyard you. where you're happiest? or most content.

Kiki said...

My God, is all this poetry YOURS? It's amazing. It's renewing my love of poetry.


a monkey in the mist said...

You are a beacon of intelligence and distilled fire
You illuminate in waves of glowing brilliance
Shine on you crazy lighthouse of aesthetic grace

No monkey poems today
as they would have fleas
and the bananas would be black and mushy

Julie said...

blush to the third power.