dreaming of meadow sweet

dreaming in orange
little nerve, guts, or sinew
just showing up underneath
the branches of meadow sweet

berries changing from brilliant vermilion
to gold finch yellow in january's bright
late morning sun- back aligned with red
brick building i call home-warming both

sides of my erector spinae, as forehead
heart, solar plexus and tummy swell
with increasing sun-  feet planted
in the dormant garden- pictures

of floating purple and blue flowers
and massive patches of warm green
grasses underfoot allow me
to endure the bitter cold;

stories never ever told
speak to me on worn wooden
shudders- slats, painted once red,
then gold, then green- impossible to have seen

them in gold, when i've spent my life
as a mercurial silver dancer
panning for flat skipping stones,
down by the river side

where minnows do not hide
& black willows stand like horses,
patiently waiting for the warmer weather
to go dancing on the open deserted  fields

to beat the drums, as hoofs push through
tallest grasses, abandoned apple orchards
each step, allowing the soaring higher
i think i even saw the horse's head

blend into a passing cloud
naying out loud
praise wide open spaces
and all those who enjoy the graces

within the spinning--
the tough hoofs and gentle hearts;
mountains move in our absence,
amidst our  inattention to details