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Tucked FlowersHer shoes are as orange as laughter
With flowers tucked, folded, set
Into the left curve of her jeans.
Her smiles hush to whispers
And are healthier than greens.
Her ankles curve into a step that
Moves forward as her eyes watch
The meadow of color in between.
Her ideas float into words
And carry a bright, loving sheen.
Her laces are as white as clouds
But carry the dirt and debris
Of the storms that have convened.
Her fingers paint in water
And try to find the love gleaned
From the tall flowering trees,
and the warm uplifting breeze.
Lost DustThe fog rolls steadily in,
Blankets the tree’s lost kin.
Dust hangs from each bough
And drips from the bark’s brow.
Birds glide through the vapor thick
And jump like flame to wick.
When nothing can be seen,
Something new appears,
Air from far and between.
Frost RimesThe frost rimes the greyer beard,
Like rust attacking the greater steel.
Their crimson pride was long smeared,
Like the lost heir’s begrudged appeal.
Ice flows between head and hair,
Like a river through an old town.
All four legs leap past a snare,
Like an eager prince for the crown.
A snowflake between each finger,
Like she caught the tail of a breeze.
Its whispers still try to linger,
Like warm soil before the first freeze.
Making of a Wishing Star
Three robin feathers...
Three drops of morning dew
A shell from the deep sea...
A dream from a butterfly
There was a time before
When she'd stare at the night
The hoofbeat of a deer...
The shadow of a stormcloud
She'd look for falling stars
Flying down, burning bright