IT’S THE SOFT OATMEAL
of the story we tell
to the phonies and the liars
and I sing among them.
There is the sun
sprouting long arms,
a happiness factory,
and here we are
hiding in the shadows
our small moments
the scabs.
I feel like the hand
of Apollo
dusting the earth with
snowdrops
ready to feed the pretty birds
hair long
and unpinned
loving you all
unencumbered
always.
(First published in the 2015 Issue of Saranac Review)