Molt

In spring you shed

mad winter growth;

wonder plumage

enviable by any bird.

Rite of passage

ushers in your time

of seasonal regeneration,

hints of immortality.

Dust hangs in the air.

Mound of shavings on the floor.

A glance in the mirror leaves

you barely recognizable.

You emerge shorn,

pale and summer-ready,

protected by nothing but expectancy
and your skin.

tk/June 2015

Elegant read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Primavera

Splendid cocoon.

I no longer live at home;

have taken up residence in my room

like a semi-detached adolescent.

Sleep is supposed to let the demons out.

I compose letters with doodles in the margins.

No need to replace the bulb in the bedside lamp.

I have developed night vision.

I believe in scenery, look out the window. 

Monkey swing branch to branch in the maple. 

Steal from the sleeping cap peddler.

Throw down my hat.  Sweat.

Turn my pillow, search for the cool side.

Pace around like waiting for a biopsy.

Accentuate my hard R's.  Then roll them.

I am ready for Carnegie Hall.

I pray to the electric fan.

Belt it.  Sounds like yodeling.

My hair blows out in a radiant halo,

grows long enough to cover my Venus bits.

Time stands still like I am twelve.

I rise one last time from the open mattress.  

Dust bunnies pollinate the air.
My wings visceral and lacy in the dark.

tk/May 2015

A superb delivery by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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