still my favorite dancer
moon. nightime always ends
too soon.
Author: Red River Girl
1/365
everything ahead is now.
7/365
today is already
tomorrow’s, moon.
but the rest
belong
to you.
278/365
Outside the office,
freshly-planted hostas are not rushing. Not reading
an email
Sent from my iPhone.
White tongues on green leaves reach out
to taste the air.
Is it Fall?
187/365
moonsong
littlest bird
moon. prettiest song.
won’t stop your going.
going.
going.
gone.
124/365
If the Moon Wrote an Ode to Carrots…
We tried eating carrots in salad,
moon. We tried eating carrots
plain. We peeled, chilled, serrated,
chopped, steamed, sliced, pureed–
We fed them to horses
with hay.
We tried dipping carrots
in traditional ranch. As recipes
dictate, we grate, pickle, roast,
blanch.
We mixed them with
peas. Serve them blackened
with beans. Julienne them at hostels
in France.
But whenever we bite them,
we just can’t seem
to like them.
So we may not
eat carrots.
Again.
52/365
356/365
moonsong
this big ol’ sky is a dance floor
moon. gonna fox trot and tango
all over you.
(Jim can’t compete)
(two left feet)
350/365
Things I Wanted To Write About While There Was Still Time
Your smile.
The way you turn
to face the window
as
you walk in.
Careful to stand
with your outside boots
inside the rug.
How the weary day dissolves
in the last pool
of December sun.
Reminding me to love exactly
this moment.
As if there wasn’t
another.
334/365
I wanted to tell you
the truth.
Dust your ears
with pollen. You would
hardly notice my tiny feet.
My wings, fluttering
lighter than air.
I wanted to sing you
to life. Send
pinwheel dandelion seeds
to dance
across your cheek.
I wanted to breathe you
in and in
and
in again.
None of this melts
your icicle eyes.
You do not notice
my tiny feet. Wings,
lighter than air.
Truth.
333/365
Bookie
the way you hold them
linger with their covers
jealous of your books
239/365
moonsong
hot on your trail
with the top down
moon. even our skin
wants
to dance
with you.
151/365
(You)
If everything
were water—
I’d still be
so
thirsty
for you.
112/365
Remember
Remember when we never
combed our hair? Or thought
to eat?
When darkness smelled like
water lilies mixed with everything
but light?
Nothing could
wait.
You were every bit
an astronaut.
I was
just past sky.
.
94/365
Traffic
I saw you
walking home late
afternoon. Maybe
after dinner
at
your mother’s.
Looking right.
Then left. Before
crossing to close the last
block.
I wonder, if she served
mashed potatoes.
Your mother.
If she knew
the wind
was not the first, today
to sift your curls.
Kiss
your cheek.
93/365
Spring
The Coming in
and Going out
of God.
91/365
No Answer
The package you requested,
cannot be
delivered.
Because the black cat
at the fourth floor
window
is watching. Because the lantern
creaks
and sways. Because the key took
a wrong turn. Because
the address book except
one page was thrown
away. Because the body
and the blood behind
the shed was
everything
you meant to send
instead.
90/365
What I Love Best About Sundays
Is the perfectly, perfectly
perfectly round,
round, smooth skin, tight
sweet cool
I can roll
on my tongue just to roll,
roll, bite, chew into
pieces of heaven.
Is when you say
One end, stem,
five-tip star
at the other–
Not round.
Is when I say
That may be.
But what
I love best
about Sundays…
are the blueberry, blueberry,
blueberry
kisses
from you.
73/365
-7-
The Father
of the bride was
touched. At least
a hundred people shook
his hand, congratulated
him.
He filled their glasses with
champagne.
I danced with him. He
dances well, the
Father of the bride.
72/365
Today
Because this
goodbye knows no
hello,
it hesitates to
end. Doesn’t want
to swallow. Only blinks and
blinks and
blinks
and
maybe if I
smile,
in the middle of
grim,
I can hide you.
Find you.
Tomorrow.
Red River Girl 