handful of helicopters

all hankies are 25 cents says the woman at the
community yard sale while i hand her two dollars for a belt
well, in that case i say choosing two from an overflowing basket

_______

handful of helicopters (maple seed pods)
gathered tossed car-side
swirling down under blue sky

_______

all gussied up trish in the back seat says
the way you said that word suggests a movement i say
doing a hip-wriggle in the front seat to capture it
(gold belt and cotton collared fuschia/pink/blue stripes with a tiger emblem)

_______

why celebrate mayday once when you can do it twice
we laugh upon arrival
into open-arm hugs from white-clad celebrationists
(disrupting the flowy-skirt phenomenon, mayday part deux)

_______

sara starts us on the maypole song (repeating) as we
weave/bob with our ribbons
something like this:
we are the weavers
we are the woven ones
we are the dreamers
we are the dream

cornflower and creamsicle colored fabric
knotted and lifting in the wind

_______

if there is no heartbreak, it’s not real i say
to ethan, fireside, a little bit of jackfrost blue
on his eyelids

_______

smell of cedar smoke from last years maypole chopped, stacked and up in flames
we toss in sticks signifying the things we love
that we are letting go of
in order to honor our work/visions etc

we dance around it in counts of four
often heading to our left
to violin/cello/accordion accompaniment
this one is the jewish conga arielle says
about the dance involving finger snaps
_______

stupid name i say but good flavor
(about americone dream
featuring stephen colbert)
while we cruise the hills of highway 15 back home
passing pints of melting ice cream
back and forth

_______

shine of gold ink on black paper in
some of the day’s last sun
as seen from a bench
under a juniper tree

from here: light filtering through tree
into emory’s bright blonde glow-head
as seen through trees down at the fort

_______

you could live for a month on this
emory presents me with a small plastic tub
inside: chopped up sweet cicely stems
from his fort-side food forest

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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