On the Brink

Saturday morning ginger
essence on my skin

to keep me eager
without doom, a cat scratch
scar on my ring finger
print that won’t quite heal

is no stigmata.
A tiny smear

of blood on paper
doesn’t speak
in any tongues. Aroma
therapy is no joke.

If You Please

Regrets only
raise the lower
tree line equally. Bottom
leaves hidden from sunlight, they die

at the same rate. If I succeed
in not showing up
for another family pageant to appear
before you a doom

eager stranger mouthing
simple questions
about your coniferous forest,
I just might dig up my balance

beam in this black dirt.
Just might please the wind
to respond through your branches overnight.