In spring with green buds
I dream of flowers, the silk petals of your lips
the flashing of butterfly lashes
soft upon my flesh
kisses flitting soft winged
across my face
in a myriad of colors
we'll create.

How I adore the
poetic verses of the moon.
Not the sun,
Not the stars,
but only my moon.

From a balcony of clouds
above me, the moon whispers
and throws a star.
Ah, but the moon shines as twice
as bright as the star it throws.

I would fly to heaven
just to be with my moon,
Where the silver beams
would color my hair white.

Oh, what a poem would I write
if I could make the moon
Mine, all mine ...

You say this with an odd jealousy~
It's easy being me, I am a marvel of a mountain
a giant sleeping on a hill, taking up all the space~
Write immortal poetry on my arms and people
take notes on all of the subjects I profess as truth

You say all these things as if the quantity in question
outweighs the persecution us women face around
the world, the options opting upon our forced attendance
guys like you creep in bushes and clamor you're
an incel and some of you wish you were girls

A terrible thing to be is to be me

.

    Memories
    are like
     footprints
        in the sand.

         They tell...
          In so many
          fragmented
          tales,
         where you
         came from.

        How far
       you've walked.
       How lightly
       you've trodden.
        And how hard
         you've dug
          your toes
            in deep.

             But...
             Unlike
              footprints,
            memories
           don't get
           washed away
            so easily
             by the tide.

.

The glimmer of light
skimming upon ripples
is so bright
I squint
trying to capture
its sparkling life,
to absorb its nature
and bare witness
while it yet exist,
before it slips
away
like a passing love
you would die to save.

'where night is....
monotones of silver stars'

emotions
blues, greys,
summer tied
to our hair,
love on our
lips,
in a moment
we live and die,
kisses of golden
skies,
our dreamy heads
lost in the clouds
uprooted like a
strange plant, we
run to prove we're
still alive,
dance to say we're
beautiful and strong,
like a polished stone
we find ourselves in
weird pockets,
where the air sighs
where our ribs are no
longer a cage for
our breath
where the stars
hang like fisherman's
nets wrapped to
a black ink sky,
strange sea of stars
love so gorgeous
it sings like the
wild storm-grey sea,
where night is....

half way there
- half a wing,
a colour by half.

sat for a while,
halved the moon,
half of an orange,

yummy!

what ever half there
- way, wing and colour -
met me halfway,
in total eclipse.

beauty.
the dark oneness.

Flushed aromas of seasonal rebirth,
hues coalesce within portraits woven
of motions colliding seeding the earth.
silk petals delicately handwoven.

Brushstrokes of nature weaving on daylight,
dewdrops lingering like teardrops on leaves.
Bees collecting nectar, resting from flight,
life flourishing, nature gracefully weaves.

Tame winds caressing elegant blossom
as tears of colour descend upon height.
Blankets of hues saturate emblossom
resembling cloud pictures, sketches re-create.

Surrounded by fallen tears, natures allure
caressing landscapes, spring delicately pure..