(Marblehead, Massachusetts in May 2008)
on the pier, i hold a mimosa
branching words, not leaves, which
i pluck and sort in my hand,
but they arrange themselves, these
almost feathers. funny then,
how words can weigh,
how they can't belong
to me or you, but they move,
and we love
how their colors assume a charm,
mysterious
when sprinkled to a stream below
here, still warm from the palm, they
sink down the cold to find you, then
bubble up as prisms.
yes, i know them now
like maybe i didn't before
yesterday, when i had shed a tear
or two on this purple strip of pier.
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