Who writes of me
without pad nor pen
or scribes with sharpened knife
a belly of lies unfastened from sheath
deep that bores the core of heart?
Illusions swift they swim
in waves as shoals
spawned from
tiny minnows.

Early in the dark hours
where no birds have flown
before the flicker and hum of stars
silence where daylight sweeps away
the cold occluded moon
amid a barren white velvet
a silhouette of trees
caked in winter.

In the rain forest we heard the first birds
stood amid the cooling spectral fog
walked upon the spongy ground
the layered earth of moss and mud
along the path and further on
came streaming rays of sun
that silver lit the wild paphiopedilums
smiling toward the sky
a shine of silken stars.

I am green in these hills
I wait all spring long
wait through grey rains
too early for summer flowers
I dream of sun fields brightest yellow
my heart a wild field that burns
my lips are paper seeking water
desolate in this desert
your lips now merely
a mirage.

Today
it was felt
in heart
it came sharp
a knife
a hammer
deep the ache
the numb
that tries to escape
the resurrection of the fire.

All the blue of day slipped quietly away
the glass of the lake with little winds
waved the sun to sleep, rippling in steely colors
drowsy with glints of gold.
The pines soon went black as birds
and in the darkness disappeared.
At the closing of day
a lone call faintly heard,
a sadness, the weeping of a bird.

In this moment I am water, grey rain
I cry with trees, and all the streams running.
Fog and clouds, a twist of branches overhead
my mind, a loop concentrically swirling
a trick, the swoop and slip
the black and falling birds
scream of skies unraveling.