I held a spoonful close to my mouth
Sips of whatever I had coming again
Tightly packed for a business trip
In a car with four doors
Fingertips and a medicine bottle
And a spoon held for too long.
Take me down a river road
Cottonwoods and wheeping willows
Blowing in the wind
Long lamented tailwind signaled
Our swift departure – forward
With an essence upon my lips
Holding on to my silver moon.
When I walk into an empty room
When I reach my palms for the sky
As essence, I’m a ghost
And sunrise brings tomorrow
With ten thousand spoons of sorrow.
I am a prophet in a rose
With two hands tied by thorns,
Fence posts painted white
Along dew kissed morning lawns.
When I sit amidst thousand year old trees
When I wave crookedly in heaven’s winds
My heart becomes a dead leaf
Integrating so effortlessly into a path
Dust to soil to earth to spring.
So long shall my stalk bend
Two ends of a hemp string crossed,
Seeds falling on gray wood
And harvest moon is my birth.
Into my sweet tea
I felt there was an empty spoon
And you came along so soft
To help me with my sugar,
And here your golden laughter
Took a shining to my smile –
A power I was helpless to,
A Queen in a beggars hand.
And if my sorrow had a strength
It would be a sweetened song,
It would be so round it had no edge
And sugar would be my pun
For my sweet tea is clearly running low
And my spoon has turned to fun.
A loon is like quibbler’s spoon
Lost amongst a star lit moon,
For every motion
Is quite awoken;
A beach of a tranquil loon.
I am the little spoon
That lives in the hill,
With masterful might.
An age old tradition
My father’s father told,
Forgiveness unheard to
Plant out my soul,
For I am the little spoon!
Happy lives fold.
Yet here I am
Amongst leftover pine,
A scraggly drain
In a dirty edged pond,
To my father’s better half,
Which I cannot explain anymore.
Which I ply with my little spoon.