She is not deranged,
simply absent from her mind—
the journey is long.
Shaking Free
She takes up her flute
and, piping a few thin notes,
shakes free one small star.
Battlefield
she and he
both set in their ways
the lines drawn
Bedtime
waltzing up the stairs
unicorns with silver breath
singing me to sleep
Footprint
her footprint
under the plum tree—
fallen fruit
Paper Boat
paper boat
drifting aimlessly
downriver
Sleep
Sometimes in waking
I dream of all your graces—
sleep blurs the vision.
