To wilting dandelions,
I ask the same old question every time,

"Tell me, when I grow old,
will my decayed hands work or shake too much?"

I hope I can climb trees,
and watch my scratched guitar weave through the pines:

High in the canopy,
gazing through branches at the one I love.

We play blue melodies
and feel blessed by the sun.

Winter: when the Northern Hemisphere has bowed down to the sun,
when frostbite grips the most ardent heart until it loves no one,
when the fluttering pulse of the earth relies on life support,
when the wind casts an anemic cold through icy window panes,

just wait until that fateful night when city lights fade away,
until back doors slam with thrill as the sun melts into the trees,
until footsteps crunch through snow- but are then stopped dead in their tracks,
then upturned eyes reflect the flickering dark, and hands are warmed with love.
/ winter becomes bearable/ frostbite loses its grip for a while

To my dear astronomer, please know,
that although I may never see you again,
our lives are but a clear night in winter:
and you are a sky full of stars.

To my dear astronomer, please know,
that although I may never see you again,
our lives might always be steeped in bitter coldness,
but you are a clear sky full of stars.

Like the way a sunbeam skips across a flitting fish's scales,
a browning maple leaf slips into the gutter during a storm.

The way butter yields and melts onto freshly warmed toast,
a pencil fights for movement as a sleepy hand drifts off.

The way greasy wrappers fall from an overflowing trashcan,
a cat's eyes blink slowly to tell you they love you.

The way a foot slams the gas to pass a changing yellow light,
a lost shoe clings to the sidewalk, waiting for its partner.

It is fleeting, immaterial, the way death shows itself to you-
skipping, slipping, melting, fighting, falling, blinking, slamming, clinging-
Oh! how it hurts so dearly to find
that every ounce of living
hints to your little life dying/ snuffing out.

As the moon rises above skyscrapers, an ecosystem is revealed. Aluminum candy wrappers shine under streetlights against the gritty black tarmac. Flying in a majestic arc, the pigeon swoops to a nearby trash can and feeds on greasy fast food papers and stale hot dog buns. Satisfied, the pigeon ruffles its gray wings and flies low along the road, watching the dashed yellow lines move faster and faster, until it is hit by a car. Here lies nature.

When yours touched mine, fingertips bloomed yellow petals
that fluttered gently between our breath,
words built raindrops that rivaled the sun,
and I forgot the dahlias of past lives.

This was the creation of springtime-
a fleeting moment of neverending-
a season I had never felt before.
Your hands pulled blankets over my frosted shoulders
and my skin grew sunflowers in thirty-two degrees.

O my soul! How filled to the brim you are,
After ages of drought and sorrow.
You are, my dear, like a cloud, nimbostratus,
Who flies over sand, ocean, and clay.
You are but human; we cry salty tears
And your heartstrings absorb their ocean spray,
taking up their laughter, acid rain and
You billow up into the stratosphere;
O my soul- you can feel the warm sun!

In drought, you were stranded- cold and alone,
Your winds and precipitation, frozen.
Desperate hands could not even reach the sun.
O but feel! Now you're full of life and rain!
The wind! How it rushes! Your love! It pours!
Precious red drops overflow from your core.
With you, I watch as the world is colored with our love.
And I hope never to touch the ground again.