I am tickled by sound.
For Vicki
brazen,
or just clear on life
and what they need,
wood - wood in mouse traps -
pulling and hauling,
building,
curious little guys,
and there is Vicki,
in and out of her yurt -
are they feeding each other
with industry,
as they work to survive
the winter,
as it rains -
for me
the caves in me
going deeper to understand -
If all is imagination,
I just need to imagine going more clearly within,
creating the torches I carry -
I can paint the bison and the mammoth,
or look to see them already there -
lifelines,
like trees -
Home
Riches spin.
Ribboned currents flow the bones,
of wind.
Circling thermals like hawks,
unpin what grounds.
The climb within begins,
at the height,
of the heart.
Rise on currents,
tenderly lifting,
the warmth
simmered there.
