poetry.

Golden-crowned kinglet

Flickering from twig to twig

Barely a whisper of movement—

Does the snake look back with longing,

oh, soft translucent skeleton that held

her hopes and fears and desires—

until it could not?

Sing of the shattering—

the shadowed abyss of despair.

Sing of endless hungry nights

snatching soul-deep. Sing

of the chasm where

hope once lived,

My muse isn't the

meandering mist

over mountain streams;

bright on a sharp morning.

My muse isn't the

We are pilgrims from a small world.

We're afraid of our mothers, our lovers, and each other.

Afraid of car-washes, laundromats, and drive-thru's.