Gap Year

Make the most of it they say,
As if that’s not
What we’re already trying to do
Though definitions vary between late
Evenings and impending sunrise,
Watch night sky glisten with match
Sticks striking skin, a glimmer of pointillism
Find our way home by connecting the dots
Taking time holding onto consequence of being
Together under assumption that if these eyes
Never close dawn can never come
But it does and how sweetly significant it is
That the day can end in reverie against such
Sullen cries of waning innocence

Pulled awake with thick honey beams
Shrugged off residual suppositions
Lingering still a soft pot of moral support ready
To mitigate existential insecurity waits eagerly
In the kitchen or outside painted as neoteric
Portraits of wash-town forests
Take a break decide course of action
Stretch and listen leaves whisper hymnals
For the day’s intent, sing along
A chorus of vibrant arrangement

To run or wander is always
The question the Great Mother Moon asks,
To rest or mend is what’s requested when
Our eyes open, revealing again an opportunity
To repeat or start anew


Sunrise Hymnal

On one hand it’d be nice to write in a tone that’s vaguely familiar,
a tone warm and comforting. On the other I’ve done this
nineteen times and I’ve never been to Idaho,
ah, so it goes. It’s the morning-what
better time to write- a bit cloudy not
the melancholy “it’s cloudy heavy sigh
cloudy but the slightly mysterious
cloudy. The cloudy that forecasts
adventure or a simple day of
Cleaning and hot tea. A
soft layer of snow
blankets the Earth
freshly fallen broken
up by tender
from squirrels
foraging for food
or dogs excitedly getting
their morning walk in. A
quiet serene morning, to my right
a pale owl mug holds the vapor
of green tea with a hint of chamomile
and upon listening, watching the morning
cautiously fold into something grand or another
day like yesterday, hawks sing from pine tree
minarets as if they themselves are shepherds chosen
To guide the thatched rooftops into the light of afternoon and
eventually into the glitter of Spring. Each new noise that pulls itself
from the east brings to me another place I’ve never been
to. A plane flying above this, flying through the ever present gold floating so
simply above our heads. Oak trees rattle like modest monuments whispering
stories, if only I could speak their language but I cannot and that’s just
as beautiful.