A Poem A Day, Poem #10

she's got a thing, an elegantly broken thing,
a pose of swirling chaos when she spins a
flight of fingers through her thick hands of hair,
and when the lights lay like a sleeping shush
where drowsy deludes into dreams where those
somber strands fall all down from the open
windows of sky climbing where beds are clouds
and blue is the water we drink in this cool clumsy
daydream,
and she shakes gold from her shoulders like
growing a new glowing where flutes fly like
music mesmerized by the breeze she blows when
she stumbles to snag so simply on a breathing,
and a bird sings somewhere about the
delicate branches of her arms which wrap the
world up like a neat little box called bliss where
she blows bright blind spots all over new painted
nature with the air somewhere far off plotting a
whispering campaign against the colors she
concocts every time she collides with the clues
she provides when she shines so simply with
effortlessly hands concealing eternity like a
smile that hides the mouth from a kiss