Somersaults

Little flowered dress will not go round off
where bare soles find solace in pale blades
of green. Gospel scales under the umbrage
of prior hammered drums still soar despite

the drifting solar influence. If clouds bluing
had souls, and maybe they do, then drifting
would be this innocence. 

Something I forgot to say

A check from the ice and snow covered north
signed in purple ink that I cannot in faith sign
arrives into the temperate zone of my palms
waved in a slight northern invasion of sunlight.

Once, in the freezing rain, with breath expired
in an aspiration of slippery delight, I closed the 
shiny door of an emerald car, mirrors befogged
in anticipation of a warm slide into icy blackness.

That icy blackness never happened despite the
false certainty that grows in winter that spring
will never erupt in green shoots from the black.
A wee leek curled in slumber can be coldly cruel.

Now, the winnings from another life unwrapped
scream from a previous scratch that left little
crumbies on the quarter and the oak marbled
table, marbles gone but the crumbies remain.