Yucca wind cuts through my coat,
the markers blur and fade.
I rode a while on golden dice
and now I walk in gray.

The sun still hangs, a blistered coin,
A whisper left of heat.
I shake dust
from a hollow skull
and drift on tired feet.

Cantinas hum their broken hymns,
the meek slip into pews,
they trade their vows for bottle rims
and saviors they can use.

The stew’s been warmed and left to cool,
her smile is soft and deep.
I pull a blanket to her chin,
watchover while she sleeps.

Their toys lie mute in cedar drawers,
their shoes set by the door,
and she still scrubs the cracking tile
as if we could make more.

I left my heart in a canyon’s jaw,
too hard to dig it free,
and let the desert keep it warm,
the way her hands keep me.

How can we learn to be together without losing ourselves?
How can we avoid burning up in the heat of assurances
And fading away in the cold of a rainy autumn?
How can we keep our feelings from freezing like glassy ice,
Finding ourselves eagerly waiting for the spring thaw?

We build ourselves piece by piece,
Gathering dried leaves.
No longer you, no longer me,
No longer even us —
Only these branches that want so much
To come alive in late spring,

Longing for the soft kisses of warm wind,
Without violent storms that leave behind
Torn promises of a peaceful future
And thunderous, harsh words that burn into ash
Shaping a bleeding groove from within.

There will be no sweet stability,
Only these pieces of lightly blue,
When, after a long, lonely night
We open our arms shyly, thinking yes —
Even if only for a minute,
Endlessly repeated.

Wield your words like running streams,
To conjure truth from fractured dreams.
Let language bend, let silence speak,
With power tender, fierce, and sleek.

Trace the edges of what's unsaid,
Where longing lingers, soft or red.
Let vowels tremble, consonants bite,
Unmasking shame in morning light.

Speak in spirals, chant in flame,
Name the ache that has no name.
Your verses ripple, raw and wide,
A tide of pride we will not hide.

So wield your words, your sacred art,
To mend the cracks in every heart.
Let rhythm rise, let meaning swell,
And cast your spell where silence fell.

Heart —
   hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
    down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
     each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.

It starts with a pit —
    a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —  
                  where does a heart take root?

Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
  the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.

They said,
    “the great tree fell.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?

Our eyes were constellations,
scattering questions
that language could never catch,
until laughter arrived
an ancient river
finding its long-forgotten sky.

Your presence was rainfall
after centuries of thirst,
a melody wandering home
to an instrument
that had dreamed of sound
in silence.

Absence was not a thief,
but a sculptor
its chisel filled the fractures
with molten gold,
kintsugi of the soul,
where brokenness bloomed into light.

Three years were not lost,
but spun into threads of becoming;
so when we met again,
it was not a return,
but a rebirth
a dawn that had been waiting
behind the horizon.

And in that eternal heartbeat,
I understood
time is powerless
against roots that grow
in the hidden gardens of love.