mimosa

she tells me my unsatisfied yearning might not belong rightfully to me.

maybe it's the neighbor, across the creek, shoving twigs and newspaper,

attempting to start the fire, flinging on more gasoline from a small red tank,

cursing and hoping that the flames sustain themselves this time.

I'm breathing in last sunday's silk mimosa tree.

I'm not crossing my fingers, but I am rubbing my own neck,

leaving traces of pink, yellow, green.

I choose this world, thank you

My hands full, I left the fields

with the stem of a four-leaf clover

between my top and bottom teeth.

This is how to carry luck.

Don't fill buckets full,

boxes, pockets, your palms.

Rather, fill your bags with

zucchinis, raspberries, beetles

and birds. Collect leaves and

histories in your turned over hat.

Suck on the delicate branches of fate.

Chew, methodically, expectation, like

bubble gum, with bubble gum.

Open your arms, here, some matter.

Put ideals and ideas in the spaces between

the woven wood of your basket full of pears

nonsense, no

This time, I stay close to what I find standing.

I identify the fireflies, but admire more the cereal.

After the soil, the roots,

intricate strings

pulling through and collecting.

Once upon a year ago or so, I thought of writing candidly about my experiences,

so that those I barely speak to could have a sense of what I'm doing.

The terribly habit of ambiguity is at home in my poetry, and sometimes

I don't even know where these bags of images come from, that show

up on my mind's front porch.

I wrestle my weak descriptions so often, down in the grass,

all of us wet with rain or dew.

The verbs on top, than I am, till an adjective kicks me in the back

of my knee, and the adverbs all snicker.

Nouns crowd me all day long:

cows, cups, fissures and flowers.

So, apologies for the river water I've offered

in lieu of lemonade.

I'll go back to school soon and try to do better.

a question for ya'll

how will i transport my goat cross country?