Yellow Sweater

Fashion is ritual:
a bourgeoisie motif of rebellion,  

against our own skin, 
against the vapid notion of nothing, 
against the stifling notion of everything.

Legitimacy granted by repetition: 

Jubilation
has been on my mind.

To throw my hands and heart to the sky,
wearing a yellow wedding dress,  

would fill me full. 

But yesterday
it rained. 

And it was lovely.

Informed by chaos, 
our feet tickle God’s ground.

I dreamed of a garden last night, 
with big round fruit, 
as red, 
as pink, 
as lips. 

I dreamed of Paris. 

The moon lives down the lane. I knock on her door when I want to be seen with kind eyes that have watched me become from a neighbor's distance. 

The silver lining of extraordinary times 

I just went through Tiny Writes and collected all the haikus I had written. I tried to make a cohesive poem out of them. Can find any common threads weaving the stanzas together? 

The morning lips part

The rain is falling, 

wet hair, 
wet streets, 
wet flags. 

We whoop, 
splashing mud puddles
with our yellow rubber boots. 

Embroidered on tie dye fabric,