You fly at me with your words
and we’re dancing in thoughts
swirling in the now of them.
They slide off my slinky dress
or stick somewhere back of
that earlobe where you fix your
gaze when you want to stop time.
Meanwhile, I slurp up your ideas
sharp as crunchy bits in the
cool gazpacho this steamy day.
Why fix us against a corkboard
when our thoughts were meant
to fly with bright butterflies.
Why pin us down like a corsage
wilting on a cotillion breast.
Melodies waft across the
misty psyche of our minds.
We drip the music of the moment,
catch a drop that would change oceans,
tame a mockingbird that could
fell mountains with a wing’s touch.
© Gay Reiser Cannon * March 26 2012 * All Rights Reserved