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.

I know what I'm doing

Rita kept her fuzzy strapped pink slippers and matching laced negligee chilled in the lower neglected family waters at tentacles reach.

Her skin glistened like frosted dew in the moon's wane, ready to melt under the firm embrace of an intellectual bipedal man, if only he’d risk a late night swim in a losing tide uncovering tentacles flailing with knives, forks and mirrored shards.

B.F.M.

Two Things

It's one thing to chain a man to an anchor, to drop him overboard; it's another to leash him to a buoy, to let him drift.

B.F.M.

Earlier Bird

The willow grove 

hoot-hoots 

before the cock crows.

B.F.M.