40 & counting

The chorus, the chorus
and the pregnant air
brings me back to tall places
to a promenade bare
of promise or purpose
or pretense or price
or penny royal tea
or pixies enticed
by the prospect of plucking
fireflies from ice
or possibilities of kissing
the rune-stone twice
but full, so full
of a flickering hope
that a breeze will blow
you to our elope
our elixir
the fixtures
of pagan ropes
that bind and bind
and forbids a Pope
from fashioning edicts
and obstructing the twine
from tying the unions
too long let unwind
unwound, unwooed
let slip down a slope
where the best to be done
is stack memories to grope
but we age and wither
and the time passes by
and we know, but vaguely
that the hour is nigh
for a fleeting duvet
for a last foray
for one more flicker
for the bats to obey
to the glades of our glories
to the desire of the day
yet we hide, as imprisoned
better angels at bay
and the question lingers
will we be once again
can we see once again
how to taste what has been?

Iceblink Luck

liquid crimson

embers emboldened by winds

leave their marks within

Escaped Bowerbirds

the end of a bloodline

lost to apathy.