These words are like pets.
Wind and warbler may not
cuddle up with me
under the blankets
but they’re ready when dreams are,
my subconscious, a brotherhood
where water and sky await.
When I write,
I don’t consciously seek them out
but they curl up at my feet,
lick my toes,
gently nudge my attention.
Neither a grim cityscape
nor torrid love affair deter them.
I may be dealing with the danger
or the betrayal now
but soon enough
I’ll come back to fields and flowers and their ilk.
For they love me
even if I ignore them for a time.
long grass that infiltrates the trees –
they’d be called Fido in another life.
But I don’t have a dog.
Sunlight never felt the need for one.