red-breasted swallows chase
love on our
grave. She piles the earth, spoonful
by spoonful—

I see a torrent of brown
in her hair,
I see her dancing in the early
morning light.

i bare my shoulders to the wind's chill.
i sit next to you on the car ride home.
i watch as shadows gather on your skin.
i pine for twilight after the sun sets—

and still hear you in the pine air
and still feel you in my pining breath
and still hold you in each pined sigh.

the flares of my eyes
are nothing but a warning
that fire seeks the air
found in sacred cavities
of your heart and memories

long streets make tired feet
her words formed intersections
as if roads could rhyme
from the last dead end, i hope
to walk with her one more time

night

light on her face

looking up

moon faced
door mat cat

velvet tent ears
and stripes

faintly glowing
in the kitchen light

eyes track
my routine

paws tucked-under
quiet, waiting


Tom Spencer © 2018