.
.
you kept saying
my name and i kept breaking ancient dishes and the road rose up to meet silence after all those years of pontificated blessings. it wasn’t an ending and we were never careful and we met again just left of someone’s center. a poplar whispered overhead, louder than reconciliation. you touched my arm as a question.
beneath the tall pine
six feet from feast and fallow
the sound of breaking
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
compost
last night
in the grocery store
i thought i saw you
no, i
did
see you
for one brief second
that stretched to
infinity
as i turned
and stared and
almost
reached out
to touch your shoulder
say your name
all the while
reminding myself
that ghosts
never shop
for frozen peas
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
something to be said
for the way moonlight and subterfuge
carry on in dark corners
building secrets and sanity
from promise and pause
.
white lace curtain call
for dancing midnight siren
bell-lipped enchantress
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
redemption
there’s a scar on the sky
and dawn gasps for air
the tree is broken
a bee hovers
bits of lace and ribbon
drift slowly back to rest
on a raspberry horizon
gilded decoration
for a dancing
thieving
crow
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
wisdom
never comes the way you think it will, never through planned lessons, marked milestones, expected losses. it slaps you in the face in the guise of moon at midnight, vines itself round your ankle in the garden at dawn, stabs you in the heart at noon and rips away forever. silence is the absence of sound, and i haven’t heard the robins in such a long time.
the trees are tracing pattern
on a fake pearl grey of sky
and i am racing forward
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
(in)
digestion
when the
world is so
unpalatable
.
some days
you can only
stomach
dessert
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
on lilac buds
and scattered leaves
in the garden
there’s a metaphor
for everything
today i see
new growth
the cycle of decay
a patchwork
of green promises
i see the backache required
to corral tomorrow
i feel the sun
on the lines of my face
i hold the love
the toil
the acceptance
in the palm
of gnarled hand
i control nothing
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
a bed of frost
and a moment of calm
pull me deep
into a center
swirled with doubt
this is my cage
hung with beads
and sparkly bits
and holding me
camouflage
captive
while these
angst-coated questions
beat their tin-cup music
on pretty bars
and purple painted
barricade
.
. . . . .
.
.
de
(con)struction
is the shape of flame
roaring consummation
in the face of absolution
exposing spire
and ancient skeleton
burning history
back
to blood-soaked
prayer-lipped
earth
and
mortality’s
imminent
stain
.
. . . . .
.
