poem in an onion patch

i tend  to look for words in strings of matronly pearls,

silky orderly words

who promise to content themselves to grow in rows like onions,

and then  i rest

and watch for white clouds

on baby blue skies,

for flocks of bird songs to swirl around us

(the onions and i)

for abalone feathers to dribble ink into tide pool puddles

from a garden hose who wanders about making it his business to 

spray little girls

who find treasures watching for them…waiting for them 

on sands 

where starlings speak poesy


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