puddle break

"funny but it seems I always wind up here with you"
--The Carpenters

burnt orange
and sienna
take me places
where words fail
as leaves fall,
where I pray for rain
to gather
in puddles
suitable for stomping,
and gray skies
to dampen me,
until I wind up here,
chilled
and wet
with eyes open.
and ready

Speaking Fluent Mushroom

 “There is also another option – they are saying nothing.” --Andrew Adamatzky on Mushroom Communication

we like to see parallels.
human connections
between living things.

electrical impulses
in the mycelium
become words
and sentences.

sending warnings.
expanding access to food
and water.

but no word
on messages being sent
designed only
to hurt
and hate.

so the parallel
falls apart

Does This Time-Frame Suit Me

breaking time,
again,
pumping seconds
until they burst
leaving shard like
milliseconds
on the ground.
double-step
around the mess
(never step on a shard of time)
content to 
let someone else 
(you may meet yourself)
repair
the damage.
but sunlight
refracts
through the pieces
kaleidoscoping
my vision
guiding me back
(maybe not back)
(maybe not forward)
stuck
again.

It's a paper airplane kind of day

 It's a paper airplane kind of day.

The words won't stick
so I fold them
and sail them,

across the room at first,
then up the stairs
and out the door
into forgotten sunshine

(my mind is still
cloudy and gray)

until this minor wonder of aviation
comes to rest
in what remains of the rain,
taking on too much water to fly,

but now
my spirit
can take flight.

Hydrogen

at a distance                 at a distance
uncomprehendable       of six city blocks
in this silly                     is a person
human mind,                so decidedly
lies                                different
another sun                  from me
made of                        I cannot hope
the same stuff              to understand
as me                            them

Don't Doubt the Science

Photons give
bound electrons
energy to jump
(and dance)
and lower resistance
allowing this switch
to switch
and so the streetlamp
clicks off
announcing the coming
of morning
no matter how gray

of Spring

I send fleeting, desperate thoughts
out through my morning window,
hoping to connect
with something beyond this cup of coffee
which warms my fingers,
but they cannot compete
against the hush of tires
on wet pavement
and instead
die
slowly,
hidden deep
in the beautiful
emergent
green
of Spring.