stepping stones on pencil rose petals (poem)

words on a screen like
strokes across a page
each a gentle rocking
back and forth,
slightly
unbroken
but for snip-its of blank empty moments
between charcoal black, pitted page white, and graphite gray

a different dance of the same passion, safely
typing torrents of hate
hope
hallowed grounds of hurtful safety
the black and white forest
that carries no tone

when the small slate circle
of the eyes of the others
can meet
face to face
is there not
more care taken
with words
chosen?
accusations
slung?

the owl's out stretched wings
envelope
something
that cannot be defined
while the bristle backed bear
searches
for something
to consume

yet the owl hunts, too
a silent, swooping, midnight monster
deadly in its stealth, hunger, need

tip toe toward what sings
to you,

there are no shadows
dark enough to hide
the notes of a guitar that
sing sweetly
shaping soothing moments

of basement level solitude

While you wander lost
in search of wanderlust which
winds you inward
twisting
convening
converging
like mountains and rivers
reach toward each other
a babble brook sound
amplified and twisting itself
softly
deeply
into your own soul
but, softly...to no more than
the whisper
of a night whispered into
so softly, a falling rain
dancing delicately
on almost a foot of snow

like toes
around a cotton ball
curl your rose petals into themselves,
and hold it all...
hold
what is there, imperfect and needy though it may be...
Small arms, chubby cheeks
reliance
dependence
love

Love

and take small steps
on every scape...land, paper, computer screen...
 take them
a dance upon a distant shore
unknown
unseen
a vastly different shore
than any
that has ever washed you
with its salty, imperfect waters
before