its funny how
you know the way the eggs will slide down the pan and over the olive ghosts
because of the homes peculiar gate rhythmic in stride
with the earth like the moon's tides, pulling, pushing, the ocean.
and how and when and where , you are going to have to catch them
with the spatula, its funny how
you flip them, and rememer how you were wearing an orange coat
and she walked in like a sunrise
and commented on what that particular color
had meant to her that day. its funny how you dreamt of red unbridled horses that night, and
mazzy star notes, and iron.
its funny how you know the exact angle of the pan on the stove
and what will happen next.
its something how she says
laughing fully and sweetly into the out loud
that she would sell her body
on a street corner
to be Leonard Cohens groupie, and its realy funny how, at that moment, you are like, damn! I wish i was Leonard Cohen.
Its funny how neighbors here greet eachother warmly,
both as the pears drop with sugar weight and sometimes
land on the unforeseen.
Its actually not funny, it is sweet, like pear sugar.
my mother juices them and calls it ambrosia. by the lake.
back home.
and its sweet how neighbors here also greet eachother in the spring,
when the pears are babytides of blossoms. honeybees snicker in
curiousity....and they probably giggle and tickle eachother,
a little bit, its funny how much you love her and think about her.
and wonder about that particular angle of the earth
and if it was just slightly gaited more to the stride of.... of some wild horse
you, you know, maybe?
love and then more love to you sweet one.
you really mean alot to me. sunshine.
its funny how you know that you could live fully good and kind, though mischievious at the right moments, for that girl that means the world to you.
sweet dreams. starlit snuggles.
god i miss you.
-poem by raven stevens
