PAD 17

Grey skies
streaking rain
and leaves.

Smeared pollen
dissolving new blossoms
and watering the concrete.

Mesopotamia

I have daydreamed of you
my palm cupping the underside of your earth. My hand
impossibly perfected your diameter, molded
to your curving horizon.

Three heartbeats in sync...

I find myself cradling you while you cradle
life; call me Atlas enamored with her weight
call this the new geocentric galaxy and I'll be a faithful satellite;
or keep my arm pretending the Euphrates and Tigris, enveloping your fertile valley.

National Poetry Month - Day 17

I enter the house of Saturn
running again from the return of the sun
I test her structures, sturdy yet unstable-
this is not a home for permanence
it is a home made of sticks, or straw; waiting
watching big bad wolves huffing and puffing at my heels

you've never been able to blow me away

Saturn writes love letters on wolves' breath
she wants to change my existence,
earthquake the value I've placed on this life
the motivation I've placed on my feet
she thrives on upheaval and her house is already a half-mess

I can't stay here forever...

I'm barely making it through today
limped my way through yesterday
running from the sun who's always three steps ahead of me
into the waiting arms of Saturn, who returned too, a lover...

photo courtesy of NASA

Happy Birthday to Me!