:::wood dove:::

Obedient rows of tiny white cherries sail
in a violet sea; I can see the fabric of her
dress, but not her face.
Never her face.

The length of her hair changes, sometimes 
curly, sometimes straight or wavy, yet always
a gingerbread brown.

In the distance, almost within reach, she slumbers
deeply, waiting to be born.

Summer

Basil-laced strawberries swim in two quarts of water,
replacing yesterday’s battered, bloated limes with grace.
Tonight, they too, will be discarded like a pair of
sweaty socks, surrendering in defeat.

Skaters, daters, bikers, and hikers
weave freely in and out of one another, stuffing
the last of the capsizing light into their hungry souls,
before Hrímfaxi’s hoary mane hovers above the horizon.

 

Twilight in the Tulips

The sun decamps as we march here.
You lend your heart, I lend my ear.
Rich tangerine and scarlet dames
command the field with docile flames.
As we are humbled by their grace,
lush lilac looms on heaven’s face.

The moon reports as we halt here.
I lend my heart, you lend your ear.
The ladies’ gowns have been concealed
and diamonds bright have been revealed.
Your mouth unfurls; I see a smile.
Let’s linger now, for just a while.

Ocean Ode

The weight of those black keys in this palm-sized bingata
pouch never amounted to very much, yet they opened
worlds more abundant than Witwatersrand.

Gazing at such delicate flowers, dyed in orchid and amethyst,
our all-too-short afternoons waltz upon my mind; I smile at the
memory of the blithe and innocent spirit that you so lovingly
shared with me.

An empty floral pouch, coconut and pear lip balm (only used once),
Band-Aids (only used twice), antibacterial hand wipes, and alcohol
prep pads – fragments of a broken bond, bespoken by no one.

Stranger and Citizen

Limber limbs suspended in time – such grace is revelation.
Acutely aware of all the wonder that surrounds us,
my mind willingly turns inward.
Everything and everyone – stranger and citizen alike – is poetry.
Versets…haikus…sonnets,
epic narratives, only known by a select few,
or possibly by thousands who worship in earnest.

Even with vats of black plashes,
I cannot record them all.
My ink will run dry
and my memory banks shall prove insufficient.
It would prove to be a risible endeavor.

And yet, I ache for the loss,
with no anodyne in sight.

 

all thoughts and traces (repost)

Living is the daily removal of dust
from various places
and beloved faces,
tending to years as if
we could hold them within
our ever-shrinking hands.

Fingers fold, hardening into
shepherd’s crooks.

Wiping away time becomes
tedious, more trouble than it’s worth,
in a season when keeping one’s eyes
open can be a tremendous struggle.

various places
beloved faces
leave them alone
all thoughts and traces