the tree rises in the dark
fine needles, like fingers
forming in the love of the womb
like hay hooved back into the stable in the spring
spring. summer. No one can imagine the warmth;
a different warmth. sun warmth. animal warmth.

Curled up in winter, we nestle into a different warmth.
we huddle together like a litter of mammals for heat
in the nights of the storm
we feel Gods watching us
with fiery anger
and flowing loves
we see the streetlights like pathetic fires
sprawled out across the valleys
where the mist sets in the day and the sky consumes at dusk

the house is haunted
but we shake the old bones' hands,
we sing and dance and shout,
red in the face,
red in the blood, the heart,
we give the ghosts flesh so they may sit with us,
so we may love and cherish and laugh

so we may sleep safely wrapped around one anothers limbs
the great sprawl of humanity
awake again for the touch
of winter warmth.

There once was a little girl who dreamed big dreams.
Dreams that rose up like flowers that blossomed in the spring.
Dreams that shine brighter than the sun on a hot summer day.
Dreams that fell down in snowflakes on a sparkling Christmas winter.
But, one night, everything changed.

The storms of reality poured down like rain drops.
Tornadoes shook all her hopes down.
Pain pierced her as she drowned in her pool of tears.
This sudden sadness she endured was at an age where she was sixteen.

She thought growing up would be a pretty thing.
Looking all glamorous as she started dressing up in leather jackets.
Boys made her feel like she was a baby doll.
Her friends started being her family.
Soon enough she had all these realisations about life.
Now all she ever wanted was to turn back the clock, and turn six again.

Amidst all that she knew the past was long gone.
Therefore she had no choice but to move on.
And dream those big dreams she wanted ever since she was that little girl.

Her feline inspired lines are amongst the best,
but she's still a cat lady, nonetheless.

A hermit's heart may weigh lighter than the feather,
but he's spent all his days longing for something better.

The lonely are often alone by choice -
that's the way it seems to me, at least.
I'll take to writing and forgo my voice;
plan it out while I walk down lonesome streets.

From the subtle strokes
of a solemn wrist.
I can see so much
of her on this page.

It could be sadness,
or laughter.
Love sonnets,
or groceries.

Like her eyes,
I get lost
in the flow
of her lines.

❦

I stand in the gray mist of morning, stuck in a state of overwhelming tranquitily and immense despair.
In the front yard I wait, for the reliable light to come back around and break the spell of night.