the last snowflake

on the rusty front porch chair

makes its way to

its nirvana

...or whatever

and the old girls

pour a tonic and gin

pull out the albums

and sing a tune

that carries across

the great expanse of wildflowers

i used to get upset about waking at 4am....soon alarms would be going off, rushing here and there, kettle to boil, lunches to make, forms to sign, stories to be heard, three little birds to sing, a puppy, a dishwasher to empty, another pile to be moved....but now i understand the value of waking at 4am....quiet contemplation, slow reflection about things past and things forward, the sound of slumber surrounding me, allowing my heart to stir, allowing my creative soul to breathe

the outing

out of all things mainstream
no rules apply
out of the rat race
kissing the sky

on the edge of everything
with a smile and a dance
the never ending menagerie
parading, masquerading
forgive me for choosing this time
to reveal these glimpses of my imagination
i couldn't resist
the temptation
to dream

i remember my grandma's breasts

big, floppy

held in close by vast swatches of bleached elastic

and i remember her belly

round, 

constantly in motion

from rest to playful laughter

to pensiveness 

as she decided what to take out of the cold room next

i remember her watchful eyes

as she placed her arms in her lap

in between her breasts and her belly

a safe, quiet place

to nurture the goddess within

if i was an activist
or a mother
ass seated firmly upon comfy couch
one leg over the other in yoga stretch
to release tense muscles
mind winding to mind ahead
counter stretch
unnecessary sneezes and squeezes
and a pliant sighs
i might fall back in the wildflowers
to patiently wait for the banquet

i get up with the birds
their incessant rant 
about truth
drives me to wake
if you listen to them carefully
you will hear thunder and peace