were autumn leaves. From a snap
of cold turned golden yellow
to mud brown, twisting off
falling to the ground.

Her colors
bled out in a wink
from the wash, the crimson red
to salmon pink. From bright to
dull, the sort you didn’t cull.

Her colors
peeled like an orange rind
as she was sectioned. Men
chewed her up and spit out
the seeds.

Her colors
chipped standing
in the sun. She's brittle. Flaking
she'd whittle into dust. Flying
off in a flurry.

Her colors
cracked. Someone
took an axe and hacked
her walls.

No ode for you, periwinkles
No exalted verse or prose
No lover's gift you will be
Unlike the regal rose
Not placed in summer bouquets
In vases - never seen
Nor gracing dark tresses
Nor found in floats of dreams
Yet sweet you are to me
Happy in blue and white
With your merry little faces
Like fairies and lithe sprites.

Was very talkative,
He got married recently,
He talks minimum,
Either he has become wiser,
Or he is afraid of his beautiful wife.
12/3/2024

When we were young
we said let it come
if it rained
we had an umbrella
if it snowed
we had a plough
If it iced
we had a ski
if it stormed
we had shelter
if it darkened
we had light
if it was fire
we had water
if it was old
we were young
if it was too much
we were one.

one night in Earth time
space black eternal

one dreaming in pictures
super mysterious

one morn to awake
a Star outside your window

of cards and letters. Burned
them like the golden leaves in my backyard,
till they were grey, flat and charred. But
the smoke still billows in the air

like a pile of dung from a mare. I washed
the scent off my body like salt and
sand after a day at the beach. But the grit
is stuck between my teeth. I blocked

numbers and addresses. Threw out
all the summer dresses, the creamy lacy
halter tops, the sandals and flip-flops that I
wore. But his picture is in my bedroom drawer.

to water a dandelion
like a rose
to read poetry
in prose

to see white
when it's painted black
to think it's given
but it's taken back

to catch a glimmer
in shade
to think I've had it all
for all it to fade

to call a foe
a friend
to think we start
we end

All these weighted apologies spill
from my hands onto the wintered ground
There are moments in the day
when all the quiet burns
and the smoke inhabits these walls
but the possession of this rain
is never enough to wash out these lungs
or dilute this volatile pain
I was never good at speaking
always shied away from crowds
you were never one to stay quiet
always ran toward the loud
A cycle of oscillating seasons
I'm too in love with hating the cold
and far too familiar with the sound of rain but these birds, they're always calling
to new mornings and a sky of gold
and you sit here, waiting to hear your name as I clean up all the spills
from these weighted apologies
and pails of winter rain