I'm jealous of the sheets
Twisting through your limbs
Wrapping you close
To keep you safe and sound
They bring you warmth at night
And greet you each morning
Just how you're on my mind before I drift into a dream
And once I open my drowsy eyes
To the beaming morning light
Bursting through my curtains
You've returned to my thoughts again
But you never truly left.

I wish I could be the one
To rock you to sleep
To hold you in my pleading arms
To run my fingers through your shaggy hair
And listen to the groggy groans of your morning moans
My cool cheek against your chest
Kisses on your forehead
Rubs on your back
Our bodies mold to form
A timeless lullaby

I know a place where I belong,
Just down the road, by the bluebird's song.
Hang a left where your heart beats fast:
Here's the future of presents past.

When you find the spot where your lungs breathe quick
Climb up the scaffold, stick by stick.
When you reach the top, leap; Fall; FLY
(I always wake before I die)

When your feet are loose and your fancy's free
Find the nest of the chickadee-
Here you're brave and here you're bold,
And here the hearth is never cold.

A place where arms enfold your soul
And yearning never takes its toll-
I belong here. In this, the forest gold,
And here I'll stay 'til my mind grows old.

I'll wander 'til I rest my head-
And I will only sleep when I am dead.

Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.

It was cold
the night she left us.
Her body ached in pain
as she held the gun.
Her thoughts were dark, dreary, morbid.
We never thought to ask
why she didn't smile anymore.
Her eyes were like a shut down motel,
dark and closed and creepy.
Her teeth were yellow,
for only they could stop the words from spilling out.
She had stopped eating,
she left for lunch.
But we just thought she had met someone.
And we were right,
in one way or another.
She had met a man,
a man that reeks of decay, and death, and sorrow.
He only wears black, even on the hottest days.
His face is made of bone, and nothing but.
We will all meet this man at one point,
he is Death.
How we meet him, well that is up to him.
For her, he chose sooner rather than later.
I wonder if she regrets it,
I hope she doesn't.
She deserves to be happy now.
I wonder what caused her to do it.
Was it Bill, who played practical jokes?
No, she loved those.
Was it Ted, who hit on her everyday?
No, he apologized.
Was it me? Did I do it?
Yes. I must've. I had to.
Why else would she do it?
Maybe it was when I tripped her.
But she knew that was on accident.
Maybe it was when I kissed her.
But she kissed me back.
Maybe, just maybe, it was because I never told her I loved her.
Maybe. That word will be the death of me.
As it was of her.

Multiple personalities
were created by me
to compensate the absense of
those I needed
ones I desired
but
could not see.

new neighbor in the garden
golden, winged cape with black
swirls
edged in black.
ruffled tail.

graceful, fluttering, gossamer

slender body,
strong and fluid,
visiting the fragrant

august blooms.
magenta, crimson, gold
and soft pink whites.

so many greens
don't interest as
sunlit warm hues
beckon and speak
to the stranger
in unheard voices.

passing through a moment
of sparkling light, here —
and gone,
the tiny traveler
rides the soft breeze
to the next
tempting display of summer
gifts.

urged to run for a camera
I find the pen instead
to remind myself —
enjoy this world,
one butterfly at a time.

All summer I made friends
with the creatures nearby ---
they flowed through the fields
and under the tent walls,
or padded through the door,
grinning through their many teeth,  
looking for seeds,
suet, sugar; muttering and humming,
opening the breadbox, happiest when
there was milk and music. But once
in the night I heard a sound
outside the door, the canvas
bulged slightly ---something
was pressing inward at eye level.
I watched, trembling, sure I had heard
the click of claws, the smack of lips
outside my gauzy house ---
I imagined the red eyes,
the broad tongue, the enormous lap.
Would it be friendly too?
Fear defeated me. And yet,
not in faith and not in madness
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside. It was gone.
Then I whirled at the sound of some
shambling tonnage.
Did I see a black haunch slipping
back through the trees? Did I see
the moonlight shining on it?
Did I actually reach out my arms
toward it, toward paradise falling, like
the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
the dark heart of the story that is all
the reason for its telling?