This poem is no Billy’s babble,
I know this girl who tends to dabble,
Dabble with unkind creatures.

She’s beautious, dark, and loyalty-tied,
Non-gregarious, starry-eyed;
Starry-eyed for the inexpedient.

Wit is written on skin so fair
Eyes like skies, too deep to pare.
But pare her idea of ideal men.

Challenge, with whom her morals meet,
Picks scoundrels, wreaking calm deceit.
Deceitful words are hooks to her.

Beknownst to all but she herself,
These rogues take riches, turned to pelf.
Pelf, for she is better than them.

Too low they sink below her merit,
Her virtue, they could stand to inherit,
Inheriting her in return.

I’ve searched, I’ve lost, I cannot find,
My friend and constant companion.
Where he went, indecipherable to me,
I’ve lost him yet again.

So back I go to the world of ticking clocks,
Of passing time and children growing older.
To see if he is sill-bound still;
If he lingered when I left.

The window’s threshold does not halt me,
Or the fairy that ensues me.
Distracted- shut her in a drawer,
Find my comrade- Laying on the floor.

Shadow! I have found him now,
But why refuse to stick to me?
No facile falling into place,
No soap will stick his feet to mine.

I jump and squirm and shriek at him,
And dampness fills my eyes for him,
Until a sweet voice breaks the dawn,
Needle, kiss, and thread in hand.

She ties us close at tips of toes;
And Shadow fights for Shadow knows!
He, who long has gone astray,
Life of elusion left to boast!

The entrance winds behind an imperceptible dirt road,
And if you pass too quickly, its glamour won’t yield;
Tricking you.
Chances are slim that you will pass it again.
But if you peek, and pry, and probe-
Fooling the glamour to slip a little,
The part in the trees will open to you.

Through the leaves,
Over the natural bridge,
And you come upon it.
Indian Steps.
Where smoke curls amid your hair,
And drumbeats school your heart’s own thrum.

The lake will lap on stony shores,
And voices, oscillate past you.
Here, the only shining thing is the sun through autumn leaves,
The only siren a steady note,
Drawn from the deepest woods and threaded through a flute.
The trees’ leaves embrace its call,
And give it back, lovely in their mimicry.
Just like the others who catch their eye here,
You will always choose to stay.

October, with lilting melodies that play,
Rocking my frame with frisson,
Has yet to send the warm winds away,
And succumb itself to autumn.

The season change has just begun,
We’ll watch it turn in equinox,
As I bid goodbye to the sun,
And again await its warmer rays.

I sometimes think the trees can scream
So loud as to change their color,
In desperate need to re-achieve the dream,
And catch the sun’s eye with their flame.

In groups of three,
Me, Myself, and I.
In three sentences,
I miss. I live. I sleep.
In three words,
Not Quite Enough.
In three syllables
Ex-Haust-Ed.

I am weary.
I must stretch my limbs,
And never let show,
The knots they bear.

I am tired.
The wells beneath my eyes are tinged,
As if to mimic a bruise,
And seem to have no intention of clearing.

I'm wiped.
Ready to let my heart relax.
And if anyone wakes me up,
I'll knock them out.

Quiet
...resolve
The voices are the tiniest hum-
-clashing as only voices can...
They all lift;
And.
Are.
No.
More.