the moss is cool against my fingersmy back dampthe sky has lost its blue at my feet, the remnants of decadesrusted cans, a rotten shoei make a bed of copper leavesand let the treeswash my hair with their dew an unseen squirrel chitterson a far away branchbut i don’t want

Scattered  across  my  arms  like  constellations  in  the  skyA  kaleidoscope  of  butterflies,Wings  painted  in  silky  smooth  inkEach  with  its  own  unique  design,Its  own  enchanting  name.But  each  with  the  same  purpose:To  keep  me  from  harm Two  instruments  sit  in  front  of  me,One  that  draws  in  crimsonAnd  the  other  in  ebony  ash,One 

I am sitting by the oceanAnd I’m thinking of youof inky wishing stones and straw hatsFloating on the surfaceConsumed by viscous memories slipping my mind I am watching the loonsThey call for you stillBaying in the smoky portsEach methodical note rippling away forever in hopes to reach you I am

Where I am fromit’s a late August morningfresh eggs and Canadian baconit’s my brother’s old flannelcowboy bootsand work clothesit’s the tender sun on a dusty truck dashboardwith sleep still in our eyesit’s John Denver on the radio Where I am fromit’s a late August afternoondriver seat pushed all the way