Library in Time
It’s story time and the little ones gather around her knee
On a soft pink rug for rugged knees in tattered jeans from too much playing at
The setting where we venture in some wild adventure into the land of man or animal or Buddha, maybe it was Geisha then,
or an Amethyst with a name
in the windowsill, or in the wood, or in the box, or in the wardrobe, it matters not
who knows, as our minds wander in the morning sun, warmed by the fire
of lost boys,
or girls or puppy breath,
what’s next and then
the plot we know not.
This one stands for majesty, an oak of understanding or
Was it sparkle pump in the profile then, no
the Buddha girl with curly peppered hair who said a circle of friend, just one, with a little help from that book of music.
Oh how they mingle in the windowsill, branches touching in some unspoken meaningful array of
Cobwebs hanging on a wing touched by Oklahoma, no
A tortoise shell, I’ll tell you.
This one stands for then and that one stands for now passing on the mystery to some future girl of tiny gifts in a tiny town invited.
To gaze at a windowsill in wonder, swaying pines, newspaper clad artifacts, and handmade cloaks in closets above a green box of mementos more
I gather you.
The singing trunks in guitar tunes in the wind of my imagination singing Wagon Wheel over air plants two and two in blue clouds on glass.
Tears marching under the palm of that angel, little tyrants hell bent on a sugar compost high.
Oh and that one with football shoulders playing scrabble carrying dust to the sea anemone to the left of the quartz, or quarterback or
Was it a tick filled skull.
Ouch that hurts.
Dusting things with watered down resin.
I’ll carry that with me forever and you have a peach seed in your pocket now,
How did the story go tell me? Shhh. Let the windowsill speak of the circle of elders watching above a gnomes home in June.
Girl in the Tree.
I’ll be there but I might not be me
Sporting gray buns smelling like bay leaves
medicine smoke come
tall time tales.
Rocking back and forth in a fork of solace mountain where we met in apple picking days stacked on the shelf,
telling the children that never came to some
same seen Library
I died before the guests arrived.