am I unique? fear not, she says, for
no one breathes pine needles the way you do and
no one bleeds stars the way you do and
no one, no one whispers of scarlet mornings
the way you do.

but what, then, does it mean
to be here? is it your voice
dancing in my dream last night? is it
the way our fingertips speak of
quartz, of ink? is it the icicle
antlers we planted this morning? is
it the soft scratch of birch bark? of
outside? is it the emptiness
that defines us?

all of this and more: I cherish
these sunlit midnights,
the memories of broken
storm.

how still the silent water greets the night
a gentle muffled splashing at its shores
reflects a moon that quietly implores
the lake to join her in her lonely flight.

how smooth the ripples gleaming silver light
a path that ghosts away with splendid dawn
a thousand fireflies dancing upon
the frozen highway shining in the night.

and to the sun that yawns across the east
no silver light falls over misty lakes
no evidence of midnight dreams, at least

              (Only the moon, the moon
                                          remembers all.)

In the twist of a sweet winter morn I am
buried, yet no more lifeless
than the slumbering roots of this yesterday
forest. Brush the snow off my eyelashes--yes, just so--and find
that I am but an icy glow, transparent beneath
the fairy touch of your marble lips.

wild whisper of August wind
ruffles my hair and scatters my thoughts like
castaway leaves riding a downstream breeze
snagging on branches as they tumble, float away
and I stumble after the flashes of color,
the fragmented memories, wishes, to-do lists
somersaulting alike in the freedom wind
and I let them, let them go
let myself give in to the roaring crash of summer’s eve
a sun not yet ready to set
soon, it will be time to chase
time to gather up the scattered musings
but for now
I carry it within me
this wild, wild whisper of August wind