Piss and Vinegar

Wandering desert winds conjure 
wondering dessert wins; 
elves that ride ponies, 
rhythm spaced for miles, 
and a gallon left to drink. 

Heart away from home inside my head, 
stumbling through serendipity to find 
a sprite of sunshine's spray 
springing, sweet Tigger come to life; 
paths now merged, 
tears have dried from my eyes. 

There is opportunity here, 
lushness unexpected in the dry 
spiteful winds of this empty plane. 

Welcome mats aren't needed 
when such sparkles shine in gazes, 
diamond smiles and open arms 
wrapping my heart so tightly 
it'd be impossible to feel anything else.

There is something I can't quite 
put my finger on within the swelling laughter 
that she always seems to unravel 
in the spaces between the words. 

Absurdities arching my spine, 
as my revelry seems so poignantly 
reflected in her absolute ease 
inside the chaos of a passionate life.

Orange haired gypsy, 
made of funk, 
piss and vinegar; 
How does one follow 
the path of fire's flame?

Onward, ever forward, 
outside reason 
and in between 
the constants of 
straining senses; 
deep into the mix 
of hot sauce, 
whiskey, 
and relief 
that this glorious goddess 
has shown enough mercy
to shelter this moonlit beggar 
from the cold, 
until the fire is again 
stoked within his open gaze.

Wounded healer, 
what madness must be endured 
in these chosen tribal trials?

Back to the trees, 
the wonderment of defaultia 
again embracing our perceptions; 
what new paths we are to travel, 
i gratefully traverse 
with a yawp of my own, 
and with thanks I rejoice.