The mountains are smoldering
don't ask me how.
A small box contains a lifetime of sunshine
don't ask me about the shadow in the marrow of things.
Sometimes the salve is molten ore
don't pick at your sweet wounds.
Only desert flowers know how fragile the blooming time is
don't worry about your accidental awakening.
A paper boat drifts across the wide mud puddle
don't dishonor your dance with trying to explain grace.
The swollen river pushes log jam dreams
don't let the idle side of truth speak for you.
Don't melt in early March
empty your pockets with steady precision.
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