Midnight tickles your turned up toes,
dawn scrapes your knees
but your head is already in daylight
kissing the setting Sun and not me.
The scent of musk and the north woods
spark a scene, an arsonist’s rush…
don’t believe everything whispered
under a sage moon.
Memory is the landscape,
longing the river that meanders
like a lost child in dream.
Currents lead to dried riverbeds
and forgotten photographs, flotsam
on the once raging river.
Suddenly I find myself nowhere,
making sunshine out of oranges,
searching for roses on the moon.