there is a bright storm. a clinging net of cotton
as cloud, a particle of open in the fistfuls of blue
a mime that opens mouth and turns startled,
to hear the birds calling out so far, so far, so far.
someday is a beautiful word, we rest our hearts.
there is nothing wrong with resting, even
Woody Allen has to sleep in blissful ignorance.
we all sleep. we all sleep. we all sleep.
there is a bright storm. a down and tear filled
gloaming, the sting of cold against the last sun
where we gather our arms around one another
and silence or breath is our acknowledgment
we do not know why, we do not know why, we do not
maggie may ethridge
dedicated to the parents of Chelsea King, Brent and Kelly King