stars silently
    enveloped
     turbulent seas,
gingerly dappling
   each current,
whence the tides
   were stilled
'til they ebbed
    'tween streams
        of serene
            spring waters,
      rushing its
          banks in
             cascades of
                tranquil
                     awed hushes
                         overflowing
                                midst
                                   surrender's
                                                   quietude

Supine
On the floor
Of an unfinished treehouse

I stare into
The glow
Of a Wednesday
Morning.

My sketch pad
And a few
Unfinished books
Scattered around me
Some are fiction
Others not.

I stare into the
The ever lightening
Sky, searching
For inspiration.

She took that with
Her.

I lost a sense of
What beauty is
When I no
Longer woke to
Her eyes.

Poems and sketches sit
half finished
And I lie half
-- of what I was.

In a world that
Has such a complete
Understanding
Of every
Morning
Breath.