Offhand jokes provoke my laughter, rainwater shaken from a birch tree
Like a soft, plum sweater snagged on a prickly rosebush (they know not their effect)
My eyes catch on his face (they know not their effect)
Foamy seawater rolls over and envelops grainy beaches, consistent and in rhythm
Just as my thoughts turn to him
Like socked tiptoes on carpet, I probe his mind for clues
But I feel more like river dance, loud and obnoxiously obvious
It's adventuring with a faulty compass
I am the needle, spinning
I'm on a hyper-active merry-go-round
Round and round
Turn turn turn
I know not what's my ankle nor nose
Yet, this feeling, though well known to me
Peaks from the soil like a timid seedling
Soft greens, waiting.
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