small bridges

the world is burning      the stars are burning

                    how can we tell 

between catastrophe          and astral beauty 

                 it is no way to live

in my mother's eyes      there was always

                a waiting, waiting

and sometimes            she was more dead 

              than she feared I was

inside night's shadow         a solid darkness

               a series of searching
in impulsive skies     and a patient earth

                    or vice versa 

in drifts of memory       and burning snow 

               grainy as television 

I am important               I am impatient               

                find hope untidy

but keep it rooted        and learn to grow it

                    hearty although 

still watermarked         by tears and time

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Pic: The puddle of napping puppies around my feet... I love how their paws are all entwined. (Max's head is off camera as he's flopped off the edge of the couch. The red haze is from the red and blue lights Nu likes to have on in the rumpus room.)