Dead Daisies on Either Side

An ideal life in my own hands – the kaleidoscope of finished leaves, ready to take flight on the slightest breeze. I am in the glebe of my own making. Yet, talking with the wind reminds me of where I can go and with whom.

A pine tree has got to pine!

Canoes, still waters, and broken cattails. We would glide; wouldn't we? Silent in our adoration; glimmering in our hearts.

Red wine, Spanish guitar trills, and thoughts of the difficult desert burning just around the bend.

The gate unfastens and swings away from the house with a groan. Walk through child. Dead daisies on either side speak of what has been gifted and what has lost all memory of sin.

What if one day driving west turns into a week of sunsets on Lake Michigan? What if our feet left no print in January's drifts as we forged snowy paths like horses along the trail? Ah, she speaks this way with too much wine. Too much alone time. Too much alienation.

Even with shortened light, you are arriving now. And so am I. The flame is eternal and it fades not. I warm my palms by it as the night breeze lifts whatever is left to the impersonal crown of stars above my head.