Days are best spent with the mailman.

Smile.

We'll be so wooden.
Oh,
we'll be so wooden.

There's a certain silliness in stars.
They burn for what seems like infinity,
to me,
and they burst past the brims of themselves,
but one day,
they become finite.
They implode on themselves,
and they giggle inside,
then explode again,
taking more than "whole" worlds with them.

Leather Boots

Guess what this is? Another old poem from creative writing. : ) This one's an alternate of this one.

The desert is not vast,
or strange,
or canvas.
Though the cracks riddle
against mud and rough soil,
never does its surface take it in.

More of the old! Too appropriate for the weather, which I dislike. It's springtime, Utah!

A snowflake is a fallen ash
from the wing of a phoenix
and the tongue of Calcifer.
What cool eyes have the clouds!
With one glance, and again
frozen to melt away
at the breath of dragon's air.
Reborn when the sun
surrenders the departed gray
to the lake of sky
from which the phoenix sips.

Another old thing; yippee!

The tide is like a nose and lips
Play your skin across the rough
Kiss the ugly
Kiss the crust
And take it all away

Cotton and Detergent

An old thing, from the beginning of this school year.

Invisible people march rhythmically,
to the beat-whip-beat
of a whirl-round wind,
climb the pock-marked poles,
cling to the ropes,
hang limp over their
tumbled,
laughing
stomachs,
the sun set over their backs.