Dewberries
I awaken –or at least I think I do–outdoors .
Find myself in uncharted forests, fairytale woodlands of my mind.
Words tug from groundcover vines wound with
silver–purple dewberries that want to be ideas.
Dawn is drinking all the dew
and soon dry undergrowth
does not shine up at me
Too sweet these mornings of soft handfuls,
when I dark- crimson-dot my bowl of bran, of daily bread, of ordinary things,
with each small idea, the size of a chickpea, that wants to burst upon
my tongue
…too sweet
and inexpressible