may vignette.

These days, I spend my afternoons
traipsing through fields of tall grass and wildflowers,
wafting with the slick stocks and silken stems
as the warm winds from the west whisk across the plains—
carrying the sweet balm of lilac, honeycomb and nectarine—
and pour and push into the wispy chutes
so that they gush and swell like the ocean;
I drift with the docile drafts,
bow with the bellowing blades,
and dip to the dulcet and fluttery trumpeting
of the woodwind reeds.
These days, I sail across the lawn
on a quilt—my raft on this sea of green—
with my guitar, rations of cigarettes, strawberries and sandwiches in wax paper,
and old milk bottles to fill with letters to future lovers
and cast into the waters.
As soft, white fluff slowly sinks
from the cottonwood trees,
I pretend it is nuclear winter
and shoot off bottle rockets.
These days, I follow the train tracks,
leaving behind pennies on the rails.
The sun burns my fair skin red like blooming peonies,
and I wash my body with cool water in cold showers.
And when the moon is full,
I sit on the roof with my black cats,
wishing I could sweep across the sky
on a cinnamon broomstick
and stitch a constellation
in the stars.