For how many wilted white roses
and frayed silver ribbons,
might one purchase a modest affection?
How many tears,
fallen from the soiled nib
of a pen held like
a dying cigarette,
warrant an instant's embrace
in a stale, sun starved night?
The wind cares not for where it blows
but lightning avoids the
hopeless romantic,
sitting in a warm candle glow
beside a broken music box,
writing on a page as white
as ****** snow.
Tiny notes fall like drops
of spoiled honey,
while a deft hand waltzes
alone,
weaving a tapestry to
conceal the crack in the wall.
He's counting wilted white roses
and frayed silver ribbons,
before the locked doors of a store
long forgotten.

Beneath the boughs
lay a broken sword once more relinquished
to the Earth to claim
that which belonged to her,
so long ago, as
tangled vines take hold
of a pommel and hilt long rusted through.

"Away," whisper the clovers
as he tramps about,
and wresting the rusted blade
from its slumber,
turned and cut the Stag's throat,
while Artemis looked on,
disgusted.

Sanguine silver painted marigolds
and mums now shamefully stained
on ruined earth,
with naught but a rusted shard returned
while willows wept.

Beneath the boughs
lay a broken sword once more relinquished
to Earth, to claim
that which belonged to her
so long ago, as
tangled vines take hold
of a pommel and hilt long rusted through.

The late April breeze is talkative at night,
while on her draft,
she carries the echo of sweetened thunder
through the leaves of a
lonely tree
beside a glowing window.
She smells of heaven's tears
and budding blossoms.
Tomorrow, with the waking sun,
she'll offer dew drops
as her parting gifts,
as she slips her heels across the window sill
and under the wings of a
fledgling swallow,
caressing and commencing his couthie concert
while the sun rubs the sleep
from his eyes.
She'll leave in the silence of
dawn's first few moments,
self conscious of any gaze
and careful not to stir
one precious petal.
Pondering why she thinks herself
so sly, I will feign sleep
with one eye locked on the
golden locks disappearing over the window sill.

I'm up on the mountain
when I was born,
where I touched the cheek of a quiet,
kindly God,
who painted the hills for my birthday
while I walked a low-standing
stone labyrinth with eyes for the center,
and none on return.
With the stone in my hand
I gazed at a summit silent
and prayed tell what yielded years
above the clouds and what had been
bestowed on the watcher of worlds.
What can you tell me?
Who have you seen in the garden below,
dancing on the hills,
skipping stones on the lake?
Do you remember me?
I passed under your eye
but once,
and a thousand times over
in the frayed leather ring
about a tiny cross.

I remember the black spot
over the stove,
before dad painted over top,
and made the world normal again.
I remember the smoke detector,
how it sounded like a broken toy
left on, until the batteries
would eventually run out.
"I wanna see!"
How tiny those boots,
fit for an Alaska winter,
must now seem,
but hardly at all when I was carried next door,
still in my pajamas,
to watch the big truck
with its bells and lights.

It was dusty when they left.
A thin, white blanket of snow,
to ***** out a grease fire,
lightly frosted the tiny
toy ice cream cart.
"Don't touch that!"
"Can I help you paint?"
Perhaps I could cover up
my very first nightmare,
where the big red fire engine
shot me with a jet of water
past my mom and dad,
through a snow white trellis,
and into a tiny bed
with Winnie the Pooh sheets,
screaming at two in the morning.
It's funny to be gun-shy
of every school fire alarm,
because the Army safety officer
was caught without his fire extinguisher.

To think the bouquet slipped
beneath the current,
committed to a stream
fast forgetting
as their faint aroma dies softly
in hopeful blossoms,
rather than within the lungs of
their beautiful intended.

I watched them slip between
yellow boughs stooped low,
hopeful to glean but one
splendid petal
among glistening river stones
upon which danced a splash of crimson
farewell beneath ember shaded clouds.

Ink fades and paper yellows
under a dusty sun beam
peeking through the crack
upstairs.
Oh you beautiful hidden,
you forgotten sweet,
whose paint chips as
it were the holy meal again.
Where would we look
so long after passed
the hand of your creation?
Will we remember?
Where among the tangled vines
and lengthened shadows,
forgotten and lost in the sands
of an hourglass long due
to be turned,
might there be a whisper,
of what was?
Will He find you
with a grin
as He locks up,
one final time,
when the stars lie down
to sleep?
All paint chips,
and all ink fades with tears,
with laughter.

I remember big wheels
and church bells.
We climbed on top of tube slides
and measured who was bravest,
while the sun dipped lower
and lower,
and the three little yards,
our everything,
were bathed in that curious
orange hue of the waning
daylight hours.
We took up arms
of long wooden swords,
and broke the mirror's hold.
We were peasants,
we were kings,
we were warriors,
we were farmers,
we were off the cuff
with a story book ending
that never quite came
before dinner time.

That's why I stopped
and watched her leave her tiny pink shoes
on a root,
while she climbed up and up,
finding a comfy crook
in the boughs to sit
and read a picture book.
I walked down to our old jungle gym,
and I saw that I stood
a head taller
than where we were scared
to jump.
The little rock wall
was missing a few pegs,
and the green tube slide
was a sun-bleached white.
The wind tousled the grass
and I caught that fresh
summer scent.
I closed my eyes.
I heard church bells.