Dear diary;
my heart
met my soulmate
in the space between
slumber and waking.

A wheel that
spins

a gear that meshes

a lever and a
fulcrum

push pull
tug

and I fail
over and over

to see
the relevance

of knowing

how I came
to be

Whit Howland © 2020

We were dreaming
were we not

this didn't happen
did it not

a garden with an apple
tree

a woman

a snake

charcoal smudges
and erasures

we were dreaming
were we not

Whit Howland © 2020

We echo we
repeat

the things that
resonate

like

a corner booth
Formica table

with a gray-suited
man

his nose down
in murky coffee

lost
in a solitary moment

life imitating art
maybe

vice versa

or again
echoes of

what we love

Whit Howland © 2020

Sometimes the sky
is blue

other times  
it's gray

it can be black
depending upon
the hour

is that something with which
we can all
agree on

if so
then it's not yours
or mine

it's the

and thus it
becomes

ours

Whit Howland © 2020