There is a small blooming algae
that has come to the creek
that I walk over,
that I cross in the night
carrying my little baggie of bread for the turtles of all sizes.
The blooming has covered the surface in chartreuse
which swirls now as the turtles swim beneath.
Oh, the mystery of a turtle’s mouth as it lunges
beneath the psychedelic dance of green.
Where to toss the bread becomes a guessing game
of chance. How can this night so much the same
as every other night be a world transformed yet again?
No sky is ever the same;
no tide rises to the exact same spot, ever;
all pleasure is solitary and small and everything.
There are so very few who could understand
how secretly happy I am, in the dark,
so alone,
at last no one to tell about my small, singular,
exploding life.
A woman is a powerful being
in her blossoming
which comes long after
anyone can see,
yet her fragrance
is a potion
blessing invisibly, generously
behind her gypsy grin and laugh,
she, a twirling skirt of ascension.
Life as Improv 