May

Twenty-foot branches
soft with pink blossoms
Like a kiss on the cheek in the morning
while I pretend to be asleep

Masquerade

An elementary school art room smells like mud. Fidgeting first graders wear hand-me-down clothes protected by paint spattered aprons. They make faces at each other. They trace invisible shapes on thick wooden tables with their pudgy index fingers. They flick crumbs of dried clay onto the dusty concrete floor and whisper about the new project as their teacher marks the final accent on a partially recognizable word. White letters on a green chalkboard. Papier-mâché. A smiling twenty-something with bright eyes, her exuberance for the children is matched only by her love for expression. Everyday is a new chance for exploration. She can see the possibility in each of them.

In the Morning

Sleeping alone in the kitchen
White porcelain skin
Glassy in the the breaking light

Cold against my fingertips
She moans and shivers awake
I warm her from the inside out
With my lips to hers
She returns the favor

We sit silently
Listening to the sparrows and the mist
And she empties herself for me
Just so I can fill her up again