Morning

Eyes puff and scratch

with lids which itch

and leak

like little caves

eking out their

moisture,

my uncombed hair's

a mess, I'm sure--

and what's more--

this morning's pearls

ignore their salted

hidden, somewhat

cloistered source,

a placid, robust oyster.

LOVE, FALLING

as a 400 foot

waterfall over

smooth as

skin gray

granite cliffs--

pummels

carresses,

sings and

screams

all the way

down,

the torrent crashes

like summer lightning

might spear a lone

Douglas fir

or how a mob

of wild horses

resounds, hoofs

pounding across

Eastern Oregon's

dusty earth

and the ultimate,

long awaited for,

splash ---

slices clean and deep

into one freezing

pool, while the

softest mist coolly

kisses our sunburnt

hikers' cheeks,

can you feel

the muse's

liquid

whispers

now?