my onlyness

whispering sweet nothings in my ears

sweetly blowing through my hair as it moves

arranges things never before on the altar together

feather

dry rose

jewelry box

sings songs on top of the world static with harmonious abandon

brings the birds into conversation with a whistle

runs its hands under the rushing warm waters

plays with mirrors that float on water

onlyness sees what the branches write in a feeling

of the Beardsley epoch against late winter skies

and sees the tiny wing of leaves softening

the windowpane framed outside sculpture

onlyness feels empty and spacious

and still

at peace

imagines the soft brushes of Pan

and never looks back