I’m wrongly forlorn,
the wonderland we’ve been in
has never been lost.

We’re here a short time,
the horizon brightens fast —
we’re changing with it.

The day comes in pink,
orange glows behind the trees,
the sky, ecstatic.

For David Lynch

The morning ether
rises above the treeline —
I’m lost in that dark.

Jupiter was here
in this pink rising ether
under the full moon.

Birds chatter and sing
for Sunday morning, thankful,
sunlight breaks apart.

Sun turned the room pink,
rising above the treeline,
snowflakes form in air.

The sun rumbles out,
pink and orange and roaring,
waking up my mind.

My mind is still dark,
night stretches into morning—
the room blooms with sun.

The crow sorts things out,
cawing at me and the sun
and I don’t know what.

Hot flickering gold,
a sunrise like Edvard Munch—
birds still sing to it.

At sunrise I found
a perfect Robin’s egg perched
on the bluff’s edge.

Sun over pink clouds,
the interior lights up,
things take a new shape.

Possibility—
the word has an ache to it,
chin out and smiling.

The moon is up there—
the thinnest morning sliver,
sun coming up fast.

Crickets sing all day,
my dog and I, on our walk,
yawn and look and smile.

There is mystery
in the morning songs of birds
and deep, deep grasses.

At the red wing marsh,
wild daisies, me and my dog,
faces to the sun.