Maybe this is the year that packs so much punch we turn elemental, simple start of water, walking across sky, walking with snow, soft groans underfoot - unfolding in white orchids, unfolding with aroma of lentil stew, sometimes stiff like a cold river making its meander around alabastered maples, sometimes turning glorious into a verb, sometimes turning us into meadow of mud and moss – sometimes into moments subtle as February. You stand agog with the hunger moon, still fluffed up in pink crystal. I want to skirt night's edge, listening for the hymn that binds us. listening for the sound of green wood sheep, bleating to the wide smile of a gray day. Sometimes the day rings deeper than our laments about Monday's forecast and daylight savings time. Sometimes we want to hold the ocean, yes, maybe this is the year.
Kinetic Poetry - Subject to change without warning.