She writes in wild
-flowered breeze and umbered
earth, past
life beer-stained napkins
and muddled storm
all forms of desert breeze.
Her fingers ache of starched parch
-ment paper indigo quill spill,
scratch-and-sniff stickers
and AquaNet fugue
the dusty memory of old
books, nutmeg, musty wood.
Most days, she’s good at
masking the old smoke, the broken
tokens of a sorrow-steeped heart.
Follow her now in salted ocean
breeze, coffee grinds
dandelion dreams and
the smell of creosote after
the rain.
::
In April, we poem.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 