A blood orange sun parses mischievous clouds
From the quaint to the curious, we rally
In rows of two with plaited fists and quizzical smiles.
Landscapes slide underneath our Mary Janes
Some real, some imagined but each
With a particular nuance and scent.
A waggish smile compliments your skewered brow
And in being young I am inclined to believe.
A swollen apple lopes across an unkempt yard.
Chameleon, liar, mendicant I weave stories
From luxuries both sought and endured.
I traverse stories wrapped in skeins of flesh.
The child in me is no longer whimsical
But once she was and in my memories
I sometimes return to her makeshift dreams,
To her hopes uncluttered by impossibles.
My normality burns, the cocked smile
Churning moonlight into honey.
I face my delirium and she faces me.
I take you in doses, sugar, analgesic.
Wherever you walk the ground opens
And drinks of my sorrow, planting flowers
Where there was only dirt and manure.
There is always you, always love,
Always the impulse to riffle
Through my belongings and pass them on,
Discrete treasures dipped in metaphors and blood.