May 18, 2013

I’m sitting in a field, sipping wine the color 
of wind. Wind is the color of water, so maybe
the wine is water. I’m too drunk to tell. 

Two kinds of dandelions grow here, 
ones that look like suns and ones that can be 
wished on. And there are little white flowers 

with the texture of paper. 
I press my feet into the grass 
and my lips to the glass. 

I look up to the sky, where it looks like
someone’s ironed out all the fissures. 
I bet if I ran my finger across it,

the powder blue would part. 
I pray to the moon, the half-moon, 
half of half of the moon.

But I feel sorry for the earth.
She’ll never see the sun 
up close, and she knows it 

by heart.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A amazing poem. I like the description of the dandelions. I like the gentle way you touch thoughts and wonders in the poem. I enjoyed the flow of thoughts and the strong ending. Left sort of a question for the reader. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote