the perfect vanilla bean of nights

dark crusted yard
on a lumbering heart
with a broad hug of wind
and icicle dart

windchimes from nowhere,
a cast iron stove,
warm air is sweeter
in the orange empty glow.

both sides of my skin
are a savory mystery,
the tides of my grin
are shifting with certainty

multitude dreams
and empty word wells
leave a bit too much space
for those who would tell

a descendent of visions
a reader of leaves
i can't find my ground
nor want to bereave

profoundly okay
and dancing with friends
we cut to the core
as the beginning, it ends