The Spring Here

DPP_700

Olfactory Senses 1

The smell of crepes frying,
buckwheat boiling,
lanolin on my hands,
your large sweater
and your scent
draping over my body.

I am lost,
confused in trying to
find my own.

DPP_702

Winter Colors

Let me be white and black
like snow against
a cold, dark stone,
so you can see
just how I feel
with all the clarity
of winter.

I touch and go
with your heart
like a game of football
in the matters of the
sport and the heart
I am equally unskilled,
unsure of who to toss the ball to.

I run as fast as I can
to the other side of the field when
I see you coming.

But deep down,
I want you
to tackle and pin me
to the ground,
hold me there,
shoulders pressed
into the grass,
heaving,
that you just stay there and
listen to me breathing.

DPP_800Olfactory Senses 2

The smell of the earth
in spring:
black, wet and uncovered
from snow
like the mucus swathed
black lamb born of a white mother.

Earth,
I walk upon you,
with my feet
I press and step
on all your organs.

Please forgive me,
for I do so with
the same reverence
as when I pulled
the lamb by his hooves.

DPP_703Yellow Daffodils

Void, black and wet
your eyes
washed by a sea
of endless thoughts,
dark, deep and
frigid enough to kill.

Yellow daffodils
this spring
line the road
I am driving down,
eyes squinting from the
the sun and worry.

At the dance,
I am slow, heavy
weighed by the
burden I asked
you to share.

Pain, suffering
all of it
I could live with,
let go, if only
it was my own.

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