gates of summer swung wide
forever open till autumn
she takes you to herself
all senses held captive
she the great mother
and I her unruly child
she bids me play
roll my eyes over her plenty
breathe in her wonders
feel her warmth
hear her song
lick her ice cream.

words trip, stream, flood off the tongue
a wiggling in the ear, drums
clicks clucks stops starts, clashing symbols
do you feel my language?

you could be tempted to post a picture of a vibrant young woman, or even an older vibrant woman next to your profile
and like a web catch all those who drew near unknowing your black widow heart was in fact male.
But that would miss the whole point of living, my male and female self,
in the one balanced being, whose words have no gender.

Like wild oats
the lonesome poets
grow in the ditches
alongside back roads
and when it rains
they drink too much
like the low cotton
in dry fields forgotten
by dirt poor farmers
whose wives run off
with the first stranger
who wipes his shoes
on the porch before
selling her a pretty pair
of green lace underwear
like a bird sick of its tree
dreaming of new leaves.

any time you want to look into the eyes of love
love is looking at you
and when you look away
love is still looking at you