By spring, birds have returned to be birds, and trees have returned to be birds.
Tossing a fishing net, I attempt to catch that shade of rose in early summer that tries to explain the sky.
Every morning I go to the broken seams of earth with seeds for wild, for flowers.
In the envelope was a star. . .to steer by.
Forget the night I cried about the roses drunk on bourbon.
The questions that lead to questions are the wings that lead to flight.
“Just do it.”
Okay, for you, but have you got the instructions?
A Room of One’s Own Chocolate
They say we’ll have cautionary tales and anecdotes through winter.
How is it with you I’m good at chemistry?