weasel face.

(today is) 

clouds 

out my window in my head

(tomorrow is) 

rain on my roof

smells fresh clears up my brain

then (summer) 

90 degrees and swimming 

(we'll be back then back to work)

and the weather is always asked to be an excuse

the sky is always carrying interference and Light

she is the ocean

we live on her ocean floor

we can't swim, we just look upward at the marine life and 

play i spy with the floating mashed potatoes

call me whimsical

but I will listen to old jazz

and smell pines.

one of life's
wrinkles
(gentle, smile creases)

is to sit among flowers and feel wind brush my face. 

I don’t want to write it down because I want to relearn over and over, often.

it will always be true.