Not so old, and oh so found.

The cascade mountains
have once again
wished themselves
a happy birthday.
The wind blows out their candles.
The sun ruins their
white hats.



Solitary And Sedentary



A triangle on the
wrist
marks the spot
your lips have
kissed.



Five
Four
Three
Your
One.




Manta Ray span
from fingertip
to lovely fingertip.
A brush across my hip.
And pages turn
of favorite fiction.
The words,
they run
across my chest.
I pull them in
and let them go
all but one and three.