You say a few words
I get it
I notice those things

they give me fear  and  hope
and only give you fear

I know you're always put in the back
in the dark
you don't ask for light
And I don't really know why
but I do

I ask for answers
optional, of course
You are always generous
always willing

why give
and regret?
Is it really regret?

after your scars spill
you tell me you wish you never let them

I know you
and I don't

Do you ever become an adult
and the little things get
drowned in the work,
the responsibility,
the fear

and you know that
again
you're burning out?

But then,
suddenly,
you
remember

nostalgia hits!

the warm fuzzies
drown the work,
the responsibility,
the fear

that one thing

it's back

you try
you try to hold on

in the middle of success
it fades

you know it's slipping out of your hands
out of reach

you know
it's gone

it was an illusion all along
you've grown up

In the dead of Décembre¹, resided an elegant Accentor² dressed in all the hues of a fresh pumpkin. His rotund chest of tangerine could be spotted instantly among the frost laden branches of his bark-made household.

Throughout harvest, his henna back was effortlessly disguised amidst the fallen leaves of autumn. He was often found solemnly reviewing the state of the abundant acorns while the slight breeze lifted his earnest feathers.

Across warm season, his amber spots shined as radiantly as the sun when he floated to a near pond for a drink. The abounding dragonflies derived delight from boastfully gliding to and fro above the glittering water. Warmth lingered in the limelight as long as it could.

Along the cherry blossoms of spring, the top of his emerald head often appeared in a scene of expected triumph once he took in his mouth  a bit less than the recommended daily dose of crimson berries left in the grass from winter.







_________________­__
Décembre: December
Accentor: a type of small bird in the genus Prunella

When you're a little lover
Sitting next to a friend,
When you're a little lover
Just around the bend
Of a little heart,
You ought to do your part
Of being a little lover,
Because it can uncover
more for you to see.
When you're a little lover,
Just...Like...Me.

¼ of my friends is
Willing to think
Willing to ask
Willing to share
Willing to listen
Willing to initiate
Willing to congratulate

¼ of my friends
Is always there
Always cares
About your mountain to climb
And what you’re going to wear

She’s all you could ask for
she's even more
And she’s 1 out of 4

Why must the show go on?

Why can't we just fast-forward?
Rewind?
Pause?

I find myself stuck,
waiting,
worrying.

Still, I'm just realizing
that this is how it is
And I'm just supposed to deal with it?
Like a deck of cards!
A set of poker chips!

Tell me.

*why?

You jumped in play
I jumped in fear
We stuttered to say
"Why am I here?"
I tried to explain
I wasn't clear
You turned away
I disappeared

At 10:17 pm last Tuesday night

I fell asleep wondering
how many people also looked at their clocks
at 10:17 pm
and kept the number in their minds
for a moment
and gave it a brief value
received from them by no other time
that day.

There are some days
that the world is not only
too large
but too full
for me

and I not only with I could
but I desperately plead and long to
sit in an empty, sunny
field in Italy
far from the thought of another
human on not only what would then be
my soil, my land
but on Earth itself

and read poetry
because poetry is all that matters
when there is no one else
around.

Tears
are always knocking on the door of
my sweet, sun-filled study
in which I find nothing to do
but make busy-work of
pretending I can see with both eyes.

The knock
is that of a relative,
the kind that startles you
the kind that scares you even though
you know who's there,
you just don't know their temper
you just don't know the
urgency of the situation
and after you remember who's
coming in
your gut tells you to turn off the lights and
say you're asleep.

In this situation
there is always a key under
the door
between the outside and the inside
between the blue and the yellow
a flood lets itself in
and my hands become water
and I wash my face
mixing the inside and the outside
mixing the yellow and the blue
because they're the same anyway.