Here comes the summer around the white cloudy bend.
Today the clouds are moving slowly across the blue and the old
telephone wires criss-cross to nowhere across bare tree branches.
And where’s the surprise? Nothing to no one, I’m alone.
And where does her anger come from? We are but solitary days,
the questions of need roaming through us the deepest.
Here comes the summer sun through the clouds and I know I’m alive.
There’s no need to worry about others dissatisfactions.
I am the moment’s worryless dance, the way the summer heat
comes to us like a strange dance. We are worried and unhurt.
The past traumas lead us out into an open sky, and emptiness
flings itself through us a image, emptiness flings through us a strange curse.
We are like leaves, flowers and the trees, our counterparts
in this still existence, where movement often gives us fear.

Here comes the summer around the white cloudy bend.
Today the clouds are moving faster across the blue and the old.
This is the day of beginnings and healings. Who was the woman
whose hands sought to heal? What woundings teach us the divine?
We are but made-up words and breath and touch.
There’s little time left for us to feel.
Here comes the summer around the white cloudy horizon.
We are the bend, the vision that sees past the elephant clouds,
and though in her grave she lies, I’ll always be with her.
This is the day the small clouds drift in and out of animal images,
and I am once again six, sitting on the fence with a friend
learning the ways of the universe: change and change,
foreground, background, in between. How trouble sets us free.
There’s no need to worry about other’s complaints, I am finding
myself free of complaint--- Temperance has found me through luck.


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I think it's time I try to write some fiction and/or non-fiction, or something in between.