Up and up, up the mountain alone,
but not, for the prying sun always
tries to reach me though the stooping
Up and up, I drag my legs to the summit.
Ancient yet ever-young, our mighty friend
greets me with snow streaked shoulders,
delighted that I have made the pilgrimage.
Green tea ice cream, tasted and savored in
memory’s mouth, cannot be found.
Effort must be its own reward.
Down I start and down I stop.
Frost flowers, crouching within the craggy
folds of the mountain side like hermits
hoping to evade the sun’s judgment, listen
with me to an explanation which I can only
Down and down, legs dangerously buoyant,
hopping over rocks that would trip me with indifference.
Faster fellows bounce past me, flying far out of sight.
It is the beginning of the end
as we prepare to return.
A year that I am already forgetting,
the faces, the papers, the poems
and the pain, all fade from memory,
like her voice full of tears…or was
A year of passing, but of passing to
I am no closer, no closer at all.
“Left over right,” is what she said.
“Left over right, or you are dead.”
But, I forgot what I was told
and now my lips are crisp and cold
fearful of the frost
we thrived in summer kilns for
a burnt lavender harvest
slumbers along my slimside
ribs in drowsy dialogue
Holey sweaters, once whole
10-year-old lipstick, once bold
Make no mistake,
what is theirs will be yours.
Fuzz covered coverlet, once clean
Faded pajamas, once teal
not much longer than life.
Costume jewelry, once bright
Family photographs, once nigh
Make no mistake,
What is yours will be theirs.
transfixed by transition,
though some would say death,
golden snow crowns me queen
bare branches, once green, sigh
in freshly understood solitude
up in our folded throats
and peace, that elusive soap, floats
Welcome intruders parade across tan plaster.
The night, black as glass bodies, grows colder
with every flap of her hands.
Red silk, turning burgundy in buttered light,
rustles a merry music neath fine white frill
for this enchanting yearly yuletide thrill.
This meter’s snappy! What say you?
Its parallels are far and few!
At midnight, dawn, and twilight too,
an odist’s comrade through and through!
In truth its cadence is a bore!
It’s more or less an age-old snore.
Please put away this “two and four”
and just write!
on your person,
freezing under a tree
endlessly praying for someone