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.
Be so much as to be so much more.
In the envelope was a star. . .to steer by.
“Throw your mother off the boat a kiss.”
Forget the night I cried about the roses drunk on bourbon.
The questions that lead to questions are the wings that lead to flight.
My bird speaks well of you!
“Just do it.”
Okay, for you, but have you got the instructions?