Pages

3.8.10

By Putah Creek, (poem)

the moon got stuck in spades of light
swooning from the branches of oaks
like mustard seeds dancing in my hair.
We waltzed the glow around a rope,
which Jeff flicked on the elbow with a blade,
and made spin up like a dandelion,
a cup, a flare of cotton firework--
all this work before a wedding;
all the butterflies must be sleeping.