My Indigo

It's late. I've come
to find the flower which blossoms
like a saint dying upside down.
The rose won't do, nor the iris.
I've come to find the moody one, the shy one,
downcast, grave, and isolated.
Now, blackness gathers in the grass,
and I am on my hands and knees.
What is its name?

Little sister, my indigo,
my secret, vaginal and sweet,
you unfurl yourself shamelessly
toward the ground. You burn. You live
a while in two worlds
at once.
   
Li-Young Lee

(One of my favorite poems and poets)

You aren't real anyway so

I allow you to wander around

the back room of my thoughts, picking through them,

thumbing them over and paying

less-than value because they are dusty

and unused. "At least," 

I say to myself, "they will be appreciated"

even though you aren't real. I sigh

as you walk off with threads

of ideas balls of words tucked up

under your arms, feeling like you got a bargain. 

The door swings.

I go back to work and forget

You were ever (not) here.

Rainy Day Thoughts

Pedal your flying machine
over puddles and red boots, rain caps wet
and slick water drops slapping as
you pump your wings and sing
your song of freedom over the clouds
and into the sun.