She follows the magic

of red bumblebee and fruit tree.

In her honor I conduct

lightning rods over scrolls

of ancient China. Like a dance

gliding over ice on a sidewalk,

she’ll swing to heal my soul.

She’ll be cheering for me

as I emerge from pools

of old ghosts with glass

in my blood. Outside

Harvard Square, she’ll

stand on the riverside

in a mysterious way

and listen to the water

gurgling beneath a tree

of history and beauty.

She’s a good queen

of the skies who delivers

enough love to last a lifetime.

Her poetry folds the four elements

into tents of the almighty!

Returning to her rain garden

in late October, she leaves

moon rocks near her golden

path to the altar of truth.



Hiding in the light,

I overhear phones breaking

into torrential rain.

I probe the mouths

of journalists

for a few crumbs,

but the passion is missing.

Does it matter

that no one smiles?

Opening this bottle

of gender fluid,

I fill it with love

and darkness. I seduce

hundreds of princesses,

hoop skirts and all!

Truth be told, I think

joy is the bottom

of a crater on the moon.

A mile from its old spot,

I find a feather stuck

to the leg of a groundhog

playing in the rain.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s