August In July
It is my favorite part of the summer.
The air gets chilly at night,
Like fall is reaching out the window and blowing kisses onto my cheeks.
I watch the sun set over Classon Avenue.
The street is quiet as Sunday mornings,
The moon shines on my back as the sun sinks beneath the skyline.
It gives me my life, it gives me my words.
For the first time in a long time, I find myself writing.
I beat poems out of me like eggs for banana bread.
Wrangle them off to do lists,
And beat the words off my bean boots.
I wish they’d flow like rivers out of my hands.
Early Thursday Evening
I’m searching for words.
I know I haven’t written in a while,
So I don’t know where to find them.
Eventually life becomes a groove and it’s easy to forget,
How easy it is to be.
I love the way the train sways me to sleep in the mornings.
There are not enough things in life,
To write poems for.
But the roses bloom and I can see you in their petals,
Concrete jungles cannot change how much I love the sun.
The sweet soft scent of change is on the wind today.