Fragrant as the flowers on your porch,
Or any other, so ready to unpeel,
So ready for anything unreal...
Like an April, or May song strung
From the canary’s throat, a syrinx lullaby.
Ladened like buckets, supported by vines.
These petals are my wilderness,
They’re as free as any human with two legs,
Or a horse, unfenced, and unshakeable.
Ladened like buckets, supported by vines.
Nothing is mine, but everything is my mother,
My father is every other thing.
These roots run deeper than anyone can imagine,
Like a fossil or a canyon or your heritage.
Or God.
But I,
I,
I,
Chase you like a glutton in a feast,
Or a stutter on a tongue,
Yu- Yu- You.
The elusive butterfly
That’s always within arm’s reach –
But never in my hands.
The fertile in the futile,
The blossom in the sand.
Something unreal. Freedom.