When the Spring Becomes Itself

I straighten raindrops with my eyes,
swallow wind whole with my mouth;

feel the sunshine in my mind,
forage atmospheres and find

solace in a Sunday noon.
Minute flowers, all abloom,

Sleepy clouds drifting through time
(while colors of space rewind)

each remind, relentlessly,
me through their soliloquy

yes, I begin to grow old;
Despite the truth I’m unsold.

Red, yellow, and blue denies
indirect warmth from replies

of misguided uneven light,
Savage mistresses affright

a random crowd of living things
with raucously flapping wings

Toward the unknown known beyond
mirrored reflections; abscond

to the peaceful state wherein
the slanted sun erases sin.

Brushing Cobwebs from a Kitchen Window

Four a.m. is too early to vacuum.
Or is it too late in the day?
EIther way,
now is not the time.

Throughout the summer
I have no concept
of night,
of darkness.

I cannot recall,
In, say, July,
the look of the night sky,
star-spotted and cloudless.

Maybe some of those
wispy cirrus clouds
attempt to form and
gather for unknown purposes.                    

Now, an early sun
creates hues of pinks and blues
beyond the timeline of my backyard,          
noticed through a solitary
kitchen window.

Dingy curtains part  
to afford this view.
Stringy cobwebs,
forgotten by time,
exist in the periphery.

Breakfast time
at a kitchen table
haphazardly covered
with a cloth meant
for anything else is
The most lonely
time of any day.