Messy Magic

You
and the sleepy coo of mourning doves
in all their morning glory.
You savor the softest shine
of frost on dawn windows,
don't you?
(how it catches the light like organdy)

And I?
I trip up the stairs to the moon,
spin Otis Redding on black vinyl
beneath a waning crescent,
the warm, crooning static
seeping up and up
over a century old maple in the yard.

You and I
are a mess of messy magic,
a rolling stone and a pair of paper wings,
both moving,
both moving in the same 
direction.

~