I had been dreaming
about eating bruised peaches
that grew from a tree
by the river, its water
thick and sweet as sap.

I thought I saw an old woman
shaking her dustmop,
but it was only the moon
and stardust in the dark
that never stops.

In the fields
there was something barren
like a journey
and echoes of salt
sprinkling on a table
with food laid out for a wake.

The fog from the dream
by the river was smothering;
I was suffocating lying there
where it is said a young mother
once walked into the water
with the pockets of her dress
stuffed full of smooth rocks.

I woke when I heard
shouting that tore out the light
as night came flying by
like a bird dressed for a feast
wearing his finest black feathers.

from      time        to      time
there is     a romance      of being       alone
   the     imaginations       she  powdered
                                 generously    upon the   colorless  reality.
      metaphors   that  she sews    upon the   sleeves
                         of     melancholy.
her girlfriends   and she    roamed
                 the    ups  and     downs of the  earth,
while their        mothers screamed
                                    for   them      to be ladylike.
     saturday afternoons,
they   procrastinated    upon   pastries and     honey
                 crystallized           fairy      tales
courteous     animals
                                 riding on the      coattail of      dreams
      a lighthearted                feeling    others tried to      snooze.

they    observe things         through glitters    of their vapor.
    they   dote on the    humor of ice    creams
                       and sunlight       of   scarlet pink.
    as we    laugh    with charm,
                                            what a    way   with words,
                 a   lopsided    smile,
a      head    of   curls,
                                        a    flock     of  girls.

Maybe Heaven's only a moment
A speck of a memory on repeat
And we're none the wiser
For time is a concept concocted by fools

And if Heaven's a moment
Then I hope you're in Hell
Strangled by all the moments you'll never get
As the Harpies pluck at your dishwater eyes
And lick the rotten marrow from your bones
Forever feasting on your futile regret
For the future you blew apart

A strangle hold of memory
Deep roots in rich soil have traveled time and distance
To make fallow fields fruitful once more
An outline of your smile waxes fully in my vision
Weathered fingertips brush gently the dusted edges of dried petals
I can still smell you here among the shadows of winter
Of all the seasons to leave me breathless the cold shell of February
Lends a poetic air to your loss
I'll keep writing of my sorrow, my tenderness
For you will always have a place in my garden
Even if I let it grow wild with weeds and whispers