Free love is blue and black butterflies
weaving a round of applause on the summery breeze.
Free Love is a coppery skink on a cinder block wall.
Free love is the vibration, the brush of a leaf
against a silver-trunked mulberry tree.
Free love is a sailboat cutting the ice-green wave.
Free love is the first night of the carnival
for a Harlan county girl, in thrall to all the
bright lights, the sideshow and the tilt-a-whirl.
Free Love is the Queen of Cups, searching vainly
under tablecloths , in the pockets of old coats
in mason jars and shoeboxes
for a voice that fills the empty halls
and turns the resonance of night….
Free Love leaves no evidence, like the purging rage of fire.
It is the antidote to the snakebite of desire.
As gentle as the fall a single, flake of snow.
and as pretty as the singer on the Grand Old Opry Show.
Free love is architecture and abductions
via acts of piano and voice and impetuous moonshine.
Free love is then sunrises, emergencies, home-spun funk.
Free love is a pretty little sledgehammer, subtle
and unperjured, truthful like the medicine of Texas
Free love is hot tears, wonderment, birdsong and cinders.
Free Love blinks, shell-shocked
by the splendor of the dawn
and it’s transformation from silhouette to the all-too-knowing flesh.
Free Love stands accused (and with good reason)
of being the prayer you never wanted answered
and the wish you most ever feared being granted.