I hear winter rain falling as wild mountain roses

it’s you hiding behind the moon

if you stay away my heart will turn into shards of glass

look, red shouldered hawk is perched in his monastery

praying to rising sun as I to you

Beloved opiate of my soul

come to me

play your divine lyre

I wait for you

in the quiet elegance of night

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

Twilight makes the flow of river geisha like; eager to please, an intimate exchange between the setting sun and fireflies dancing along the riverbank. The first rustle of wind that pierces my heart. Oh weaver, you disguise yourself as the evening breeze

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

this foggy winter morning I hear a 3-string quartet
of aged priests playing the cello to “Baby it’s cold outside”
and wonder if it’s you ….. is it? or a bullfrog croaking
the same old tune of moon turned cartwheels on a hot summer day, I could not be more awed than just now placing my shoe inside your footprint that leads me back to you
Oh Weaver Ji, I wait for you under the sweetheart tree

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins



in silence mist falls gently upon the great treetops
Oh Weaver, you wrap your dreamy arms around all who live under your umbrella
hint of sunrise with splashes of magenta and gold
across early horizon, air pregnant with expectation
giant oaks cradled in the alpha heart unashamed in their nakedness.
early this morning I watched seven wild turkeys
cross a grassy knoll, their footprints in winter syncopation
against a snowy quilt
you braid secrets into their autumn breasts
these foragers of winter acorns
once obtained off they go doing their winter rumba
at other places, other knolls
this makes you belly laugh
you like to make angels in the snow
© jb