Writing

Clouds of blue and yellow remind us of our home.

As odd as this might sound, I think I was a “writer” from my very earliest childhood.

And, then at some point, I said we should only do rejects-like dumpster diving for poetry.

Dimensions but not directions divined.

Klee’s kids skin their knees and cavort under blue-sheeted shrouds.

sunward stretching Leonard lengthening limbs

We stand by the winter pond, Look each other in the eye, Then look away.

Thoughts About the Earth series.

The old masks let me breathe through my nose and mouth but these masks are different

Poppy’s reading glasses were pink before pink was cool.

I feel my day evaporating. Who else might be missing cows?

Burnt orange background for warmth roundness, spirals, buttery pinwheels- nothing pointy or masculine.