The Language of Snakes

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The Language of Snakes

Honestly, they’ve little to say,
more concerned with the proper rock
to coil upon,
where the sun slathers thickest,
where cold blood can warm.

As a drizzled ribbon lies,
they lie, spitting their tongue
into an afternoon,
searching the air for heart and life:
an errant mouse trembling

beneath a dry leaf,
a child’s fear,
a song that charms,
a time to twirl and dance.
It only requires your silence.

Gardening 

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Gardening

I’ve left a slim volume
of poetry open on the grass
beyond the grasp

of the oak’s shadow.
As the wind slides
about the house,

through the forsythia,
patting the marigold blooms
as a father pats his son’s head,

the pages will turn,
splash as water,
tossing its words,

letters like seeds,
upon the soft earth
that boarders the fence

where the sun shines brightest
each afternoon.

After the Rain

Now, who believes this story is true?

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After the Rain

I found a sprite cowering
beneath the mushrooms
that sprout
between the maple’s roots
that coil through the earth
as snakes.

Her wings,
heavy with rain,
unable to buzz,
to speed her toward the sun,
drooped as the rose petals drooped
above the orange mums.
I thought to snatch her,
make her home a glass jar
lined with grass blades
and the soft scents of wildflowers,
but to what end?

Rather, I’ll let the afternoon
revive her flight
and give her back to fairy tales,
content that I let breathe
this once upon a time,
as fairy tales let breathe
my wanderings.