the cusp

blue moon knows not of the occassion i shouldn't think. doing what she does from memory. or habit. or because it's the only thing she can do. her destiny set by gravity. infused in each mote of dust. doesn't know that the skin between moments has meaning because we bestow it with such. all hands on faces and bells. bells heralding the second where the future is now. where now swells with blood thick with possibility. where prayers are whispered like invocations from our primitive core to everything we know without knowing.

secret storms

morning is milky light
encompassing the whole spectrum of white
like someone told the world to sshhh.
silk roots extend from everywhere but feet,
whose soles read directions
scratched in dirt with feathers.

fingers write secret messages
in clouds breathed onto glass
before evaporating.
and you thought no one saw.

she listens. witness
to the building breaking of bridges.
the world has her own plans.
today's gift is a slow waltz.
snow is never in a hurry.
with eyes closed i hold out my tongue.
and burn.