who will read this.
just back from a show.
late night in portland.
on the way home--
stars and trees.
***
the latest poem about flying:
Maybe, everyone in your dream is you.
So that's you
Floating above your bed in the flattened dark.
Looking down at yourself.
Sleeping.
When I think of the bones we need for flying
I think of paperwhites, but also staples
And long, unimaginable string.
***
'night.
***
(these entries will get better, i promise!)
just back from a show.
late night in portland.
on the way home--
stars and trees.
***
the latest poem about flying:
Maybe, everyone in your dream is you.
So that's you
Floating above your bed in the flattened dark.
Looking down at yourself.
Sleeping.
When I think of the bones we need for flying
I think of paperwhites, but also staples
And long, unimaginable string.
***
'night.
***
(these entries will get better, i promise!)
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
When I was a young girl, my dad would screech to a halt on the dry dusty backroads, and with his pocketknife, would slice up cactus apples and show my brother and me how to survive on the local flora. Doug and I were too busy with teenage acne and angst. We tasted the stuff with bored expressions, never realizing that it would hit us down the road, that dad was earnest and real, and that his tales and lessons would make us who we are now.
love and wishes,
RoseMarie
p.s. what does the "M" stand for?