Thoughts by the lake at Feather Sound (published 2017)

There will be NO tears today,

I’m on an every other day tears and sorrow rotation.

Mist, vorticular particles in the skies,

in my eyes

And how the hell is it reflecting a red hue?

What brand of dust is that!?

All I know is everything can’t be written, there’s too much ebb and flow.

Do you really think your whole existence is scripted?

Do you really think that biblical authors had a clue about the most powerful force in the universe? For they were only men and only men.

Misty mystic undulant women know a many more secrets, you see.

Their hair, like willow tendrils and invisible tentacles are always ever connected to the voidless void above.

They’ve burrowing substructures too, rooting them, as they sway like blades of grass.

Oh those tendrils! Oh those roots!

They sway in the windless starfield plenum,

bosoms intermittently flashing: Red.

Ahoy! the red hue!

Dust in the mist, perhaps?

UFO!

Beacon?

Reflection of a noisy neon?

Their bosoms?

My tears.

…or maybe just the blurriest sun-blinded outline of you?

Can’t tell.

Mist.

Tears on this day.

Missed.