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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In the Beginning

I sleep two time zones,

wake in the small day between.

Darkness on the face.

No rest on the seventh.

The dustbin lid cracks down

on kitchen dreams.  Ashtray speaks

with gently-hammered elbows

and knees.

Only a blue-lit kettle

shines through the deep. 

Everything is transformed,

microwaveable.

I thank the god of oven mitts;

my fingers free to make

evening and morning,

and it is good.

At last we sleep

on the crumb-strewn floor. 

Evolved.  Immortal.
Creation under my nails.

tk/January 2015


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