As Mourning Doves Persist

...The wind distorts all familiar signals now, the light from stars like gremlin tumbleweeds my mother gathered from the road                                                                     that ran alongside the house spray painting their wind-snarled heads in golden wet drip decorating the small front porch with their bottled and suspended drift when anything the wind sent in was fair game and we made everything from nothing in our personal diorama of wind in this neighborhood of kites and tangled string, tetherball rolling side to side on the silver pole in the backyard, a modern  weather vane  keeping everyone awake at night with its harsh lullabye beating at the door from the whole ( how a thing so readied can explode. Like this ) Thank you to Cut+Paste Society Poetry Storm 3.0 Wi...

...The garden sings in her invisible weather. Of Russian sage. Of licorice scented stalks. All is fodder. You are turning the wheel with tender arms. Of dandelion and flock to dye the cloth with your indigo hands, collar turned up at the neck in this wind, and your shirt tail tucked in. You are timeless in your mother cloak, rivulets of dirt under your nails and memories of beach and snow. excerpted from the whole, a birthday poem for BR