~

she goes to the asian markets

sunday mornings

in perfect anonymity. in contrast

to the rest of the week

it's her time, and this is when

most of her poems come,

sometimes drifting by city lights,

haunting the basement

where she first found han shan.

~

words on paper reflecting

a world of wonder—when there 

is time to look. a world

north and south, and the very 

farthest north. these places

are her markets to roam.

when it's time to write, she writes

of what might be, again and again.

~

her love lives in its potential.

she dreams, and writes of beaches,

of the north country, of kisses

stolen and missed, of the ghost

that waits to be embraced.

~

of the past, it was, it served

its purpose, lessons learned, the art

of loving taken in baby steps,

the steps so wondrous 

as never to be repeated, but that's

the message, it builds on itself,

and the love is deeper.

~

she is such a silly girl, everyone

knows this, a dreamer, a storyteller,

but in her heart—it's her nature,

and there are no false words.

can she help it if she is constrained

by physicality, by chance?

~

her world is blessed by good fortune,

but that only goes so far.

what she makes of it, that's the it of it.

now she walks the markets

gathering images. later they may 

come to some sort of fruition on paper.

it's all part of the plan, baby steps

toward the beach, the north country,

the very farthest north, each

is an embrace waiting to happen,

but she has to make it happen.

~