heavy pieces of rain-
spring, sneaking in
on silver tap shoes
through young skirts of mist.
A sea of cottons drowns
all but the shadow sky- and me-
who lies
with eyes to fly away,
on lashes the wings of moths,
a sweet, paper pair
rapping at my button cottage door.
A hollow of butterflies,
filled with the pulse of the sun-
it ripples in my ear, tell me to go
where they have been
on wings of gold lace, silver strings
faster than any sea.
A whole world of leaves-
through the dry window
on the wings of a lost fly-
a story made for empty air.
The heart of the earth is a broken star,
bare as the rare, unarmed evergreen
hiding behind yellow feather hands-
yet it coaxes a lullaby
into a body as open as the wind.
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