Monsoon

Wet, you.

Oppressive, you.
Humid, you.

The smell,

…you.

BFM

Ox-eye Daisy

After plucking and eating an ox-eye daisy’s pure white petals one by one, her bright yellow central disk stood firm daring me to eat her too. So I did. This simple act of devouring, flooded my eyes with a million past meadows filled with generations of ox-eyed daisies, deer, buck, butterfly, buffalo, dawns, dusks, wooly mammoths. 

Out of my right eye a single tear, a sacrifice to the sun, out of my left a rivulet that became a creek, that became a stream, that became a river, that became a lake that fed a meadow, that fed a fallen seed, that sprouted.

B.F.M.

Walking Blackett’s Ridge

The shiny fleck of what is, 

radiant, 

until the sun shifts, 

then it dulls behind dusk.

B.F.M

Earlier Bird

The willow grove 

hoot-hoots 

before the cock crows.

B.F.M.

Coup

Dried pin oak leafs

wither till spring

when old regimens

are ousted by 

the brighter green.

B.F.M.

Autumn Lust

I love 
when you wear 
that burning crimson 
maple dress.

B.F.M.

Churning

This afternoon

I was an oak

disturbed

as a bee hive.

B.F.M.

Dolt

Sitting under 
a cottonwood 


pretending 
I’m a poet


I listen 
to echoes


plunder 
a breeze.


B.F.M.