You true believers
Who plant corn in March
Who scramble to clear a patch of hope
for your grocery store potatoes.
They will sprout through sore eyes.
You lucky conductors
Who draw storms from the bathwater,
music from the sound of the sucking of the drain.
You funny curators
Whose baskets and drawers spill with lost feathers
& dead crab detritus.
Whose cardboard & masking tape sculptures,
culled from the husks of catalog shopping,
burst through the ceiling of home.
I can no longer contain you.
Clickety-clack typewriter, fairy-tale fashioner, pillow fighter,
Would there a way, with you I’d go.