Belonging

I bend easy, like a willow, swaying in
every direction, never favoring
East over West. I am hungry for
all direction, feasting on the luxurious winds
that pick me up and carry me from the storms of
inexperience to the gentle breeze of wisdom.

Though, I snap as sharp as winter pea
skin, frost bitten by the breath of the season
when they try to take me.
They say I belong with them in the East, where
the sun rises just to shine its Gold on me.
They say I belong to the West and
the colours of their underground sunsets.
Some say I belong for them to share,
for them to grant my freedom,
and they do not understand that I belong
only to the wind.

Swamp Music

Note keys float out
swamp leaves, slit open,
hang out by green string.

Black notes,
A, B, C, float dark nightly,
lightly
through a
new moon’s ear piece.

A mad need, I am
bad seeds
planting roots
in last years’ moon beams.

Spread eagle.
Tongue tied,
sublimely.

The serene swamp sings.
Wants me
buzzing,
dripping golden honey
with springs yellow bees.

I asked the love beat
to swim,
stark,
bare feet

jealous oak trees watching
each move
melodically down stream

whipped cream
skin
dipped in a breeze.

A wet dream
for an
old, dry oak tree.