On the surface
In plain sight
Our imperfections
show.
In reality
Our true defects
Are buried
deep below.

I have gone on days
Stumbling down alleyways
Rummaging the ground to find
Any footprints you have left behind
To illuminate this path I've taken
And ease the pain of a love forsaken

A brown leaf lingers
At the mercy of the wind --
Hanging, like the stars.

Another day falling
from the crack of yesterday,

a patch of pearl
burning in the amber west
flaring up heaven
firing me up
in the pains of solitude
and poetry.

Home beckons through a dark way
where hope breathes eternal
as lanterns of moonlit leaves.

I won't mourn the loss
but fill all the void
with paper and ink.

When I awake
Early on a winter’s morning
I creep about my house
Straining to soften the creak of the floorboards
Determined not to wake the others

My dazed heads snuffles
As I potter from toilet to bathroom
Bathroom to kitchen

And then
I am taken by surprise
As I catch a glimpse
Of pink, purple, orange, blue and grey,
The golden outline of the new sun's edge
Through my window

And I stand there
Still
In my dressing gown and slippers
A silent witness
Heart swelling with joy
At this precious moment
When I am alone
With this unique sunrise

I, alone
Claim this beauty
As my own

This is my time
My precious alone time
When I am most me

Wondering like 'the mole'
At the impossible beauty of it all

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.