I love Saturdays - don't you? The stretchy ease and sprawl of them. And wine-infused evenings (in which this first-draft spontaneous-sketch poem was written in the haze of...)...
Cumulus mountain ranges
sift sky for seams, nebulous fiends
ill-fitting alfresco dreams.
Ballerina tulips dance in gardens,
petals poised for wind pirouettes,
A Buddha swoons, face on hand,
granite smile almost giddy, gregarious.
Day lies belly-up and indecipherable,
a carpet of lackadaisical intent.
Until evening when wine intervenes
with rabbit hole postulations
to roll and tumble in.