The lone burnished leaf

floats, drifts down

from this tree

like a solo midnight

thief who creeps

in pure quiet

lands sure on

a small tuft

of earth

to paint a

shimmering

soft heart-shaped

print

where

once

there was

nothing,

not even

a pirate.

Sea Sound

It sounds like the vastest ocean

between my two ears,

or a soft sizzling frypan

of energized air.

The cause tho’ uncertain

could be bio-chemical--

it’s like silence on fire

or summer dusk

in Morocco,

all orangeness and torrid

and somehow synaptic

the swish of salt spray

sounds prolifically

invisible

a bluish ocean

of motion tucked

inside my skull

it laps and it ebbs

hour after hour,

pours plushness

and rhythm

right onto

shore,

relentlessly

scours the

wet sand

of this poem.

time: a slender

fleeting reed

sits still as

thick black

silent mud,

reaches towards

a gaping

cerulean sky--

and all unseen

at eternity’s

silvery threshold,

plants her feet

where in rhyme

she oozes,

then begins

to breathe.

time

time is a leaf

turning turning

in the incessant

impersonal wind.