Sunrising from the Mind - IX

I leave the shadows, not mine,

in a house where all the glass is broken,
all the plates and pottery are splattered

on the floor. The shoes are aligned
against the door, and socks are no safeguard
for splinters. I am not a conductor. Eyes waiting

for direction without value incurred. The music

of it, an opus forming is a thunder cloud. The pain

of things comes with liabilities, lesions, incisions
deep enough, healing is never complete.

Sunrising from the Mind - XI

I leave the shadows in a forest

following a lime translucent butterfly,
utterance of Neruda, slowing sight to its wings

cresting wisp against air, chasing canary daffodils,
surfing their scents caught in western breeze,
tasting beech tree moisture hovering. It is safe

to begin again after loss. The butterfly

is a season beginning again, as we do,

transitioning from our day before. No one told us
to wear winter as a cloak to transform as skin.

Sunrising from the Mind - XVII

I bring the shadows to the river, wider

from spring showers, carving the banks deeper.
The moss has painted itself here. The path

of the valley, thinner to tread while my shadow plays
bounce and blend in breaks betwixt broken trunks,
stone stairs, tall sliding stones. My thoughts vanish,

feeling the river’s trickle and white bubble-womps.

My skin is sensitive to the air with quilted comfort.

Each thrush and blackbird are tweaking solos.
It is here I ground my feet in the soaked soil and fuse.