Thursday, June 11, 2020

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 hesitate to write it down because I want to relearn over and over, often.

it will always be true.

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