Your hair, and what we found in it

it was shorter, before.

now, it's long, and worn up,

in a tight bun,

or down, 

across your shoulders.

and only when you're sleeping,

yr back turned,

and only when it's impossibly quiet,

and only if you move,

slowly,

and reach, 

gently,

only then,

your fingers reaching deep inside,

will you find:

a clutch of friendly snakes,

7 tiny dinosaurs speaking french,

an explosion of pastel balloons,

each balloon tied to a string 

of spun sugar. 

Rainbows. 

Seven single hairs,

More silver than gray,

Each cross-section of which

Contains 29 years of 

technicolor yesterday's,

Woven, tight, in a bird's nest,

And inside,

Six robin's eggs,

Each opening infinitely

Like so many nesting dolls. 

A pot of candied gold. 

24 dreams of spectacular tomorrows. 

Buckets and buckets

Of brimming promise. 

Old cameras,

Rusty nails & 

Broken flashbulbs. 

2 dollars, 63 cents

(in Icelandic kronor).

A real, live jackelope;

a pint jar of powdered

(sustainably harvested) narwhal tusk. 

And a million brilliant tomorrows,

Bundled neatly and ready to open,

As needed, some day when it's raining,

And the sun needs you. 

Your house in the trees

You live in bird houses, now;

I visit you there,

these late summer nights,

in the heights. 

Brown bags & fire hydrants,

the constant chesty drone,

tiny rooms,

ice blue against the heavy green. 

Are you happier there,

than you were before?

Still,

you're there when I close my eyes at night and open them in the morning and in the dreams, throughout. 

You live in bird houses now. 

I wish you'd fly away. 

You've stained everything,

the things you've ruined. 

I wish you wouldn't, and hope,

someday—you won't. 

When you come down,

from your house in the trees,

and I read to you,

warbly, trembling, finally—

this life, without you. 

You live in birdhouses now,

in the trees, in the thorns. 

Look down. 

There's magic, here,

too. 

It was the wind, that woke us.

It was in the wind that woke us;

in the cold that lingered, 

these months since. 

Not yet gone,

and yet—

it was in the voice of birds,

their bitter song,

those early mornings,

running from memory,

from the reminders,

everywhere, 

and yet,

there was nothing left. 

A chill filled the air,

the rain misted down,

the darkness came,

and yet,

there was something left. 

There had to be. 

Or else, 

"Why?"

Why?

To give again.

to give way—

to lusty abandon.

To chase,

to reach,

to fall short,

again. 

And yet—

this prayer,

these lips,

this swollen tongue. 

Our screams in the void,

never meeting,

never filled.