Clouds brush rock mounds
tree-covered wooden spoons
stirring soft peach into off white cream.
Melting mountains like butter in a microwave.
Puddled lakes lick like rivers in bowl bottoms.
Catching it like a womb.
Investing it in an egg.
Where water will divide and multiply and sprawl across
whole tables wiggling fingers into earth’s soft butter.
Soaked through fungal sponges stretched clear to the other side.
Cloudy. Milky. Grey with a hint of steel betrayal.
Blue masked and charcoal angled.
And now there are less rock mounds
tree-covered, than before.
Whole milk mountains.
Valley dried sour white rings.
Waking up to rain pouring in the morning.
Stirring it into poetry like cream.