wildcat

We were rising.

With every thread tied together, by those who wanted to catch hold —

Those with knotted breath and clasped hands 

Weaving together a dream, cast out into a sea of stars —

If to be a sonnet is to be vain, then to be a sonnet is to be a friend. 

If to be a limerick is to be laughed at, then to be a limerick is to be a child. 

     The dogwood blooms later 
this year and marks the tardy rebirth 
of the earth, our home, beautifying 
after a dreadful winter purge. 

Crow, past my window, 
where do you fly to on this 
beautiful morning? 
Let us brew some mid-
day coffee and nightly tea. 
Bring me to your nest 
and hear the early 

I think peace looks like:  

driving on the highway from College Park  

listening to “White Ferrari” 

by Frank Ocean