Wandering, disavowing eyes might enhance a face's beauty, but the invisible heart's ceaseless efforts truly portray the soul's mysterious existence.

this love,
or not so sure,
but something close,
naive, or pure

it is enough
to sustain me
into waiting for you,
until we

or I
am brave,
and the timing is just right.
Like a tidal wave,

I hope we will look
into each other's eyes,
and see the truth,
beyond the guise,

beyond just love,
meek or concentrated,
whatever.
it is just right.

brewing,
steeped so long
the tea is hot,
almost too strong

darkened;
a burning tongue
with steam that also
burns my lung.

porcelain;
tea-cups clamber
broken pieces,
cutting anger.

the vertigo of dwarves--

seven bites into a snowy

apple.

caramelizing dusk.

a full viewing.

her overslept perfection.

her eyelashes flaking off

tremorous go betweens.

her cheeks, rash & unapplied

blush--what's soup to winter.

or what feigns the circulature  

of a latter stir.

Accept and move, with a steadfast stride,

confess to the wind,
who knows only of freedom
and bears no burdens.

(I am your breeze)

finally the snow
comes in a steadfast,
overnight blow

and we expect,
depend and know
that lovely quietness
of winter.

everything hushed,
more still and so
we whisper