let me be solemn in Yosemite

no,
i have not made the world my home
nor have i considered the egos of nighttime mountains

why,
their bare bones make no difference to me
as i sit in a darkened bus exhaling a ring of fumes,
an open-mouthed wreath gifted to the world

no,
i have never spoken to the brokenness of bridal
veil falls, even though she waits for me ’til morn
like a petulant little sister connected solely by chance

i suppose,
there is something though, beyond all my dumb breathing
beneath all this tumbling, and all-out burning of mother
and father, sister and brother stars

if, and when,
things are as they should be, i will latch onto the musical
strings written expressly for me, and dance holding onto
the hem of your skirt which is not one of the least of these;

thank you,
please, for wildflowers sleeping

::

17: NaPoWriMo and Real Toads

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