ramble, love.
blondie
burning, blue five-year-old tells me:
its not about me.
she wraps her giggling toes round silly fingers and rocks me back
chin tucked in
i’m coming home
i sit with heavy hands
cradle topped candy crying;
a sound you’ve never heard before
its like rain drops when deaf lightening strikes
neon trees falling free
able to hold any host of guests
able to cup you up in knarled bark
wood camp songs
i miss my dad
i miss his crows feet
and how they always walked so slow
