I pruned myself into the semblance
of a garden vine
never prim enough to be mistaken
for the rose on the trellis
but fair enough, quiet enough
yet beneath, my roots
were always itching
twitching with the unruliness
of tree frogs creating a ruckus
a withered storm stirring
inside a cracked jar


I’m waiting for the fog
to climb down the stairs
into the basement of my senses
to the thinning layer separating
worlds, words
perception and skin
white ink curling around fingers
speaking of dreams to come
tales forgotten
burnt for warmth

Moss Bunnies

Behind that old oak
are moss bunnies
nestled into the woody scent
sniffing at the turn of the seasons
from sap to sun to spice
green fur soft with all the memories
of all the flowers tasted
all the rustling leaves caressed
with curious eyes
watching fields turn golden
they roll around in the shimmer
green dusted with specks of light