I am winds,

whispered in hushed tones over flickers of bright blue

You are water,

cooling streams of ebb

molding from me impossible mirrors.

Look
see,
and weep

we are not what we seem,

we belong  to earth and moons

we arrange ourselves, pen in hand,
to cause and heal troubled wounds.

Her

She waltzes on a tight rope

a tiny wire doll

She walks with winter,

sings of snow

and prays the birds will fall.

She counts the stars

three

two

one

as she swallows earthly light,

she spends ages running

sweet soliloquies in the night.

She listens to her inner Lady

spilling lies of perfect flight

and she sheds the layers day by day,

counting bones to make things right.

The amber leaves tickle me
the graying branches spin
a story made of lilac birds
and grasses made of wrens.

The willow gazes wisely,
and holds me safe and tight
Into a bark of cotton
I sink in fading light.

The stars vie around us
wanting so to see,
the aqua bubbles we create
close together as we sleep.

Rest in peace, Kissy Willow.
You are loved and missed, old friend.

The Garden

She sat her days in the rocking chair, gears rolling inside her rusted mind.
It's funny, she thinks, how the days roll by, how now that time came, and I am so weak.

Her hands, they curled, her tears dried up, a vacant shell she left behind. The sunlight through the window met her as she died.

The years came slow, in the empty house, as protracted as they may, till one day a new spirit came to dry the dust away.

She took her magic, luminescent eyes across the lazy floors and built a ballroom out of pines, held tight with a purple door.

The old oak tree was a sorry sight, alive far past his time, and when she took him from the ground, that little house it shook with pain.

But from his corpse she did not waste, a single branch or twig, a fence she weaved, made from the leaves and his brand new branches.

Around a garden the oak cared for, and in the place where he once lived, a garden filled with yellow, the black seeds hard to miss.

The backhouse was crowned with the sun and with the moon, and in the night the fireflies now make this place their home.

And still inside this perfect place, in a rocking chair by the window she sits.
Its funny how things come full circle.