·UNTITLED (1)·
    written on 8- 21- 2003

i wish i could overflow with poetry
pluck verses from the dandelions that
grow up from the sidewalk cracks...
scattering lovely words on the wind
nectar-sweet whispers to grace your ears

yet so many of my words seem filled with lead
and will not alight upon the breeze
for words are wrought with limitations...
and crafting wings is a skillful art
i have yet to master

all i have to offer now
are inexpressible depths unbound by verbal cages
revealed by gaze or touch but unable to be
placed upon a page or uttered by the tongue

but it will spill over the edges
drown that cup i cannot fill with sweet nothings
it is lost within the deluge...

        please forgive a clumsy poet who has yet to learn the flight of words...

Sleek, tawny hind meandering through the mists of a long-lingering dawn:
She trails her garment over the softly creased hillside,
a fine veil drifting into the valleys like the bridal train of some high medieval noblewoman
stitched with pale bloodroot, laced with dew-beaded spiders' webs.

They are of the same fabric:
twisting, weaving through gnarled branches,
the cloth of high marsh grass whispering to itself

Her foot falls (her hoof falls) leaving the clarity of water-rounded riverbed stones
in a swath of silk.

Spirit Doe in the morning:
crafting her tapestry of landscape threads -
warp and weft, time and space
glimmering, then vanishing
in the growing light.