Sit With Me

Sit with me in this pretense of winter sun
and nibble on a bit of scone, sip the debacle
of coffee squeamish with cream and raw sugar
I have managed to gather into a chipped cup.

Sit with me as I do what I can to harness my wisdom,
like catching the wind on a still day,
silent as this heart aching cold as granite,
pinched in the grip of the roots of dark pines
on some abandoned northern slope.

I have started to skitter at the thought of skin touching skin
and draw out of sight at intimate questions by passing the baton of conversation
to the mundane formation of clouds or the sighting of a rare chickadee.

Perhaps it is too late for me to find myself
inside all this cluttered and anxious thinking about tomorrow.
If you come to sit with me now you might only find the remains
of the chrysalis left behind while I dry my new wings
in the light of nothingness.

A Hand Full of Flowers

In the vivid light of this bleached moment,
I am so much more than ordinary.

I shuffle into the pine shadows
so as not to burn the delicate
curves of my shoulders and freckled nose.

I rest before the hill.
It is the only way to do it.

The velocity of my racing heart
toward all love, brandishing joy
like this bunch of daisies.

A sudden melody "give me your answer true"
pops into my head
and I am lost in my memory
on the blue bicycle
nearing the edge of a pothole.

You will pick me up from the tarred gravel
blood oozing, tears making obvious lines
down my dusty young face.

You are there to calm me, to bandage my wounds
and give thanks for the freedom of two wheels

and a hand full of flowers
for my mother.