Rest is not idleness
I can’t rely on this
rut between waking and walk.
Just waiting in wingspan
too waxen to see that
my form follows function
but I was followed to my home
by the bluebird that carries
the sky on it’s back
seeking spring in succession
just to tell my winter bones:
“I see sage in your hands
and all your curves sigh like sand
but where there’s driftwood there’s land
where you’re driftwood I’m land.”
Rest is not idleness
You can’t rely on this
rut between waking and walk.
Sleeping through the stillness
of an autumn contour
all of it was made for play.
Lackadaisical you seem caught in between
two thrones draped in blankets
they’re for comfort not for warmth
And these forts that you call idols
are sitting idle in the past
small talk is not my forte
but I’ll speak about the weather for a change
cause I feel spring and better days.
