Q

The letter Q might be fat but it has such an elegant tail.

Ancient Tree Wisdom

Sycamore
The storm brought it
To town
Crashing epitaph
Knocked out all the power
Everyone was forced
To walk away from the TV
Flushed out of the wasteland
Aware again of the forest
The branches laden with fruit
Ripe for the picking.

Flood

Hair like a scouring pad
Dark as the space between stars
Curved to frame your noble face
My fingers along the ridge of your brows
Holding your face with my palms
I reminisce upon that day
Under the Floridian sun
You laughed
About what I do not know
Yet in that moment
A Polaroid formed in my minds eye
Forever captivating you
Precisely happy
To fuel my days
Ever after.

Vapors

I scour the past
Until the walls
Of my brain
Are left pocked
And bloodied
Why must I continue
In this manner
Instead of building up
And out
I dig through the marrow
Weakening the joists
Of yesteryear
Dredging all
So that I may
Rewrite everything
To suit my sorrow
Arranging the relics
In perfect lines
Recounting recounting
Recounting recounting
I must understand
Why this happened
Why that happened
This way
That way
Instead of the other
If only I had crushed
The butterfly differently
Entered the future
A second sooner
A minute later
What then
What could I have seen
Who would I have not missed
How long
Must I agonize
What is it that hooks
Onto the past
That guts me
So that my arms
Only open briefly
To encounter
That which is relief
From over analyzing
From a better tomorrow
From being fully present
My head is not in the clouds
My feet are not on Earth
I hover in neither place
Seeing for miles around
Not quite understanding
Any of it.