Soft Night

I’ve never felt air so soft

The wind high and playful at 1am, and so warm

Elaine’s maple is writhing, waving it’s ample arms in great gross gestures

Lifting it’s skirts in a whirling, gyrating dance

More a comedian, than a monster

More a romance than a threat

I want to stay out here in my long nightie

Pitch a tent and sleep under the black, wind sky

Listen to the constant watery song of leaves rustling, rustling

I could but I know soon that canopy will break open

An ocean up there about to crash on my shore

But wouldn’t I want to be caught in the unleashing?

I bet it’ll be warmest rain

Just like the kiss of this air

Ode To Mary Oliver

Sometimes just a bite of chocolate

or whatever sweetest thing you desire.

Even making love has its rhythm and finish and rest.

I read this poem, then another.

Feel the sweet spark of thought,

the agony of understanding,

the pleasure of words weaving a thought, a picture.

I read another and find I simply can’t.

I’m satiated and will rest,

enjoying the morsel I’ve already bitten into,

the love I’ve already been filled with.

To have more would be greedy.

To have more would diminish the flavor

of what I’m still digesting.

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