Poetry

Sky Dancers

They jump up from ocean swirls, from flower buds, from moon dust.

Spiraling into the sky on solid wings

they take the heart of everyone’s inner child

and plant them under the ground to sprout saplings

that will mature and develop hearts of their own.

Hearts that hold on to the fire of imagination.

Poetry

Tiny mite

Regarding Pip, the love-fruit dream of a bookish mind who haunts the dust speckles papering the bookcases – duck-egg pimples on the fingertips. It lurks, d r i f t i n g between SOLID TEXT and verse rising on inhales to nostrils intent on devouring must and ragged ink. Only to be sneezed out into the particle storm; sunlight is the only pair of spectacles strong enough to see them fight the plastic dinosaurs battling for shelf space on the brain.