Poets are born in the strangest of homes.

Grapes, before they are jelly, are happier.
They don’t know the pain of becoming.

I’ve heard that
the blue fish flies at night
so no one can see it.

It is afraid of being found out.
No one knows it is blue.

On Thursdays,
when the moon is full,
we swim outdoors
hoping to see it.

The light of the moon
makes her scales shine
so merrily.

Only a groundhog can kiss a saint.
The dirt of honesty smudges its nose.
Deep in the soil, deep in the soul,
The Earth’s potatoes watch the stars.

There is something about dirt,
about being unseen,
here.

We are all hiding our true nature,
even from ourselves.

Sometimes what we need
is the slow soft lights
of the evening
to show the way
to ourselves.

They aren’t so bright.
We don’t have to wince
and wink
like we do
in the glare of the sun.
In the evening’s glow we can be
ourselves,
fearless.