Under the blue moon I hide secrets

in flowers. The egg’s beginning

is its mother, and your paintings

are mirrors. The sun burns the sea

into orange clouds with its desires

for money and God. I remember

the world sewn to trees

and the wind watching falling water

breathe in each patterned leaf.

I can weave stories

with morning moss.

I do not mind when the sun’s blood

melts into the ragged horizon making

the clouds crooked. I hold them inside

my mouth. The tulip dawn will break

open an oil canvas inviting a hundred

new painters and I will let the light

on petals fill me up.

I will stop mourning the beauty

of dead birds.