the feeling of an old tool,
***** handle smooth from use,
numbers worn off  the sweep,
and i cannot call it by name,
other than to say "my favorite"
because it has more use
and has become an extension of my soul.

excitement flickered in her eyes,
a look i had not seen in a while,
the beginnings of an adventure,
a new chapter,
life renewed by stepping through a door,
and planning where furniture could go,
a chance at re-birth
in a place to call "home."

i walk faster when it rains,
and i spend less time looking at the reflections
of the city-lights upon the surfaces,
brighter and more full,
even with a lack of sunlit skies.
i notice it from afar,
but do not look around me
to appreciate the beauty through which
i walk faster when it rains.

it hangs in the air,
a moment ahead of where i am,
forever  baiting me
to rise and become something more,
just a little bit further,
just out of reach to my grasping hand,
in the corner just where i cannot see it,
but always driving me,
pushing me,
egging me on,
dodging from me the moment i try and capture,
only to return again the moment i want to give up.

i know i can't -
giving up isn't an option,
and it's so close
that i reach once more,
no matter if i fall
because it's still there, taunting me with possibility.

there are the big moments -
those times of ultimate highs and lows,
the memories and photographs
by which we define our lives,
and that we recall instantly,
whether they were joyous or tragic.

then there are the small ones -
those times when you didn't shine brightly, but you still shone,
you were a little kind,
a little generous,
maybe a touch despondent, too.

we live for the large moments,
but in doing so,
we live in the small moments more.

a long time ago
i was another person
and i talked to God a lot.
and i prayed, once,
that my life could be ended
to save another.
i didn't understand the answer.

today, i talk to God less than i ought to,
but He says more meaningful things,
and i think i understand the point now,
of that answer when i was young:

no.  you are too beautiful.

they taunt me,
thoughts and images both,
teasing me that they should be written down,
and when i sit to write,
they disappear into the ether,
a haunting presence there for a moment before it, too, vanishes,
leaving me to look idly at that spot it occupied, and wondering why the ideas ran from me.