one was the benches

two was more calling

three was the space keeping me up til morning

four were the mushrooms taking over my garden

she said

i don’t want to know more if i can’t have you

promised five will be flowers (they’re the image of beauty)

i may be jaded but experience serves me

i was burning inside, i was ripe with expression

born the fruit of nature, the pit of creation

time has her way

of pulling you through

the phases of the seasons

without a solid reason to stay and see it through

somehow this feeling reminds me of painting,

itching to work on an image of something

but the colour i need is the only one missing!!

i can go downtown and get it tomorrow

then i remember on sunday’s the store’s always closed

and by the time monday rolls around i know

i'll be walking back home with the paint in my hand

and the feeling gone.

time has her way of pulling you through

the phases of the seasons

without a solid reason to stay and see it through

i miss the heavy shoulders of the tree

the clock reads 6

blurred visions of

church bells humming in the distance

unwelcomed taste on my lip

when you say something

you know it sticks

cat is baking at my feet

a little coffee in the morning

regaining focus out the window

i miss the heavy shoulders of the

trees and the lowered

gaze of the sun

bloated head of the river

falling into the screaming black of night

baby teeth and fingers floating in the water