hot, sticky March
afternoon
the air is molasses sweet
storm brews thick and dark
in the distance
I sit on my porch
and close my eyes to the sound of windchimes tinkling softly,
watch my thoughts drift
in and out
flutter about
but, always back
to that sweet spot
honey pot
your eyes,
are like the horizon
ever constant, but not the same
stare forever and never tire
hot, sticky March
and the storm grumbles
my mind perches
on that sweet spot
honey pot
your eyes,
are like the night sky above the desert
inkwell dark, soft, deep, expansive, littered with the twinkle of a thousand stars
ever constant, but not the same
stare forever and never tire