I read Every word, every sentence of you; I memorized paragraphs Of you. I found warmth In the chapters Of you; My lips whispered the words Of you As if they read sacred incantations. My fingers tenderly turned each page Of you, Missing you upon turning to your last. But finding joy Upon turning once more To your first page, Reading you, Discovering you, All over and over again.
I snip the spent roses
From the bushes
And place the browned edged heads
Into this bag.
The bag is filled pink and yellow petals
Dried from the sun
Or beaten from the hail of thunderstorms.
I continue to the next bush.
Do the bushes feel relieved of a burden?
No longer having to spend energy on buds dead or dying?
Or do they want their dead and dying
To hold close and cherish the ending?
Would they rather have these old buds
Than the new wounds I have opened for them?
Is this the purpose of their thorns?
To keep the well-intentioned gardener away from their limbs?
A thorn snags my arm
And blood drops onto
The pink and yellow brown edged beaten petals
Like water in the oasis
Of this desert of the heart
Set out years ago
Dropped breadcrumbs
Some no bigger than dust particles
Of the soul
Along the roads and paths
Thought I’d find my way back,
There’d be time
There’d be years
Be months
Weeks
Days
Seconds
Left before the sand
Absconded with the hourglass
To find the trail of dust and crumbs
Sweep and pour them
Back into the soul
Add a few ingredients
Create once more
From the beginning
But birds and squirrels
Feasted on the leavings
And I’ve no desire
To return to where I started.
Words drift
Settle, pile up
In drifts and banks
Over the rocks
In my mind.
I walk through
This blizzard of words,
Watch them settling
On my shoulders,
For a moment, perfect
As exquisitely delicate lace
Before disappearing,
Melting into the wool of my coat,
Gone, lost to me forever.
But not you,
Never be lost to me.
When I’ve had nothing else,
Words were always there,
Trusted and true,
Counted on, relied upon,
Supplying all I needed,
When there was nothing and no one.
But for you,
To always have you,
I’d watch them all–
Drifts, banks, flakes
Melt, dripping away
Into spring
And you.
Days of summer
Are so few numbered.
Golden days filled with heat,
Traveling into warm nights
A favorite season.
This July begins,
With no need to seek life at its cradle
A new journey starts.
It is time to put away,
Rid and purge,
Box up junk,
Hold the garage sale,
Donate what’s not needed,
And then,
End a chapter,
Turn the page.
Reach, stretching toward loving hands,
In that place of life and peace
Where morning is heralded in birdsong,
Written in silly verses of the cardinal, the tufted titmouse,
The mockingbird, and finches–
All who do battle with cute well fed bushy tailed vermin
Attempting to steal away all the seed,
I wake each morning beside beauty beyond any,
Any I have ever known,
Heart filled,
Complete.
In the paleness of a golden afternoon,
We will travel among the mountains,
Where the wolves do run,
Their unscarred hearts thundering in innocence,
Their paws blurred in the whispers of joyful speed,
Leaving tracks in fresh snow.
Then at the end of the day,
We will lay down our heads,
Resting upon each other.
Such discarnate words
have no power, life–
struggle so for air, color–
to capture some tell-tale sign
of the animate.
Letters swirl and dance
in some perverse pretense of desire
to procreate,
to mirror a thing
resembling the beauty
in a picture sent at 11:12 AM
of yellow irises,
wandering purple jew,
privet sprigs and blooms,
purple sage flowers,
and rosemary sprigs
in perfect arrangement.
But these letters,
these words
never find
that perfection,
that beauty,
that touch upon a heart, upon a soul
as flowers chosen and cut
from your yard
and arranged
by your hands.
Miles traveled
watching fingers of wind
comb through long grasses by the roadside–
as your fingers have combed through my hair–
the heads of the blue bonnets and paintbrushes
all seem to bow, nodding toward the north,
toward you, toward home
the wheels turn faster down the highway
I have been gone too long,
far too long from home.
fragile lilies nod colorful heads
at vines trimmed, tamed upon an arbor–
all is new in the warmth of spring
the hands planting,
cleaning, and trimming–
touch in gestures of claiming and renewal
Certainly, there never has been this.
This wanting, such a perfect thing.
Never has there been
this joy or this missing.
Never did I think
to find such joy
in the ache of missing,
feel it beneath the breast bone,
thus I discover parts
of myself hollowed out
by winds and waters
all my edges smoothed
in preparation for you
who fits and fills
each dip and hollowed place perfectly
as if custom made for each other
by hands larger than our own
to fit easily together
in a series of simple clicks
to complete, to complement
a fit of strength and equal parts
Where writers gather
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