The years ending is tangled in bindweed-
its filamental arms reaching from summer into winter.
Bound by tangles
of bittersweet and honeysuckle-
I feel it deep in my chest,
the bitter and the sweet,
such days of bliss and anger,
frustration and harmony.
I wish I could remove the bad
and leave the good
but it is all too tangled-
the vines interlaced in my ribs,
rising up my throat
to be released each time I open my mouth-
its tangled in thought
and desire
and responsibility
all too nimble
all too green
all too restricting –

I sharpen my machete.

The disc turns the soft fragrant earth
across the spring fields while
small moon faced calves caper
and lark,
whisking their tails in triumphant and ridiculous joy.

Ahh Spring-
you dress in Edens green,
(you Eve!)
(you Adam!)
drawing us into the garden
from which we all fled-

where moon faced angels
caper at each fence post,
their wings tangled in sweet honeysuckle
and ridiculous joy.

(The amygdala and hippocampus
receive the information
from the olfactory bulb
before routing it to the thalamus,
already conjuring memories
before awareness of the scent
is formed in the conscious mind.)

Four eggs perch in my grandmother’s bowl
among the fragrant tangerines,
ready to take a crack into the citrus-y batter
where the luscious dates await.
The air is scented with oranges
and roasting pecans,
the fragrance from a kitchen
that no longer exists.

I found that thing which had been lost.
Though to be honest,
I hadn’t realized it was lost.
In fact,
I had not thought of it in the least
for …
I have no idea how long.
But there it was-
in all its glory.
The thing that had been lost
or misplaced
or forgotten
was here.
In my hand.
It was now remembered.
A memory attached.
To always be that thing
that had been lost,
now found.

In three acrostics

Holding
Onto a
Presumption of
Expectation

Having
Only a
Pale belief for
Edens rapture

Hearing the sound
Of angels voices
Pealing good news
Eclipsing time and story