Your fingers soared over the keys.
You breathed love into the warm, bell-like tones.
You shook your head if you missed a note,
your eyes danced,
and around your grin
your mouth said
"I still have time,"
you said.
"I still have time before the concert."

A family trip, driving home,
back from the dunes of Michigan.
A father, mother, brother, you,
a sister left at home.
You sat in the back.
You were laughing, your family.
It was the last time they've laughed so hard.

A bend in the road,
a turn into town,
your car,
slowing down.
A different car, behind you,
did not slow down.

It slammed straight into you.
The metal crunched behind you,
the car spun, and your head bounced.
A helicopter came,
to take you away.

It was too quiet at the hospital.
But you couldn't tell.
You were in a coma.
"Brain trauma,"
the doctors said.
"And a broken leg and clavicle."
They didn't mention the broken
hearts.

They tried to pump life into your chest,
air into your lungs,
much like you
pumped life into the body of your clarinet.
But the machines failed where you did not.
The human in you had gone;
only a body was left.

You're playing for the angels now,
I know you are.
There's a smile on your lips,
in your eyes,
your brown, dancing eyes,
as your fingers effortlessly
fly over the keys,
you play
for the only audience
that could ever
hold you.

my home
is not
the room
where i sleep
fitfully.
or the house,
broken memories
and walls
the color
of
****.

my home
is the
off-key
singing
with my sister
in her car.
the buttered popcorn
from the movie theater
that we ate together,
her and my brother and i.
the spring air
as we ran with her dog.
the monotone
of teachers droning on,
the bright laughter
of my friends.

home is made
of the little
bits of joy
that
we’ve left
scattered
behind
us.

Deep in the forest,
The dark green forest,
Where the trees sway
In the lively breath of wind,
Their marshmallow heads
Dancing,

Where it is afloat and aflutter
With birdsong,
And the chirps of the playful creek,
The steady burbling of unbridled joy,

Where beauty grows on trees,
In pinks and purples and pollen
In fur and feathers,
In the earth,

There is a pond,
A polished mirror laid gently
On the dewy grass.
An echo of the strokes
Of a child’s painting,
In the sky.

it’s hot here, at night,
humid, too.
shadows dance on the
white walls,
joined by crooked posters,
piles of rumpled
clothes and books
that i don’t have the energy to clean.
so i squeeze my eyes shut
to the mess,
and wish i could close my ears as well.

there is a blanket on my bed,
deep blues and greens,
it makes me sick to think of the down
and ended lives inside.
i huddle under it, still,
my sweaty face pressed against
the stuffed animal that i am
too old to have, she says.

i’m lost in my own world,
she says,
rude and daydreaming
all the time.
as if i don’t have anything better to do.
if that were true, i could drown
out the screaming through the walls,
the screaming that replaced the
beauty that my sister
used to show me,
the piano that floated through
the white washed,
hole ridden
walls.

Wrinkles run up your warm hands,
Telling tales of love and long times past.
Beautiful hands, carved from ancient oak.
That I can’t help but watch
When they dance through the air,
To the soothing tones of your Boston lilt,
Or as they grip a paintbrush,
Laden with color,
Ready to explode over the crisp page.

I can see them splotched with ink,
Stained from the time you said
That I could paint you.
I can see your hands coming together,
A smile breaking across your face.

I can hear your laugh,
Bubbling from within,
Booming across the room,
Loud and deep,
Infectious and hearty.

Your stories always have a place in me,
Memories and love etching words in my heart;
They fuel my heart’s steady beat,
Sending a smile and joy and memories of you
Infused in my blood.

the sun is a golden disk in the sky,
hanging inches above the horizon
over glittering green-gold leaves,
the heady scent of the magnolia petals
on the chalky pavement,
the birds and their ringing chirps.
the sky alight with red and orange pastels
and with bliss.
the day is here.

some prefer to see the ugly in life,
pick the rotten fruit,
the dimmest path.
they see the clouds on the horizon when the sun is shining bright,
neglect the good,
rain hate on those they
used to recognize for
who they are.
there are those.

but i, i love to see the bright blue sky,
the sparkling lakes,
the cheerful flower.
i love the joy in the faces around me,
the bright drops of good deposited in all.
i don’t see the need to see the world from their eyes.

i would be rendering myself blind.

Springy yellow flowers grin towards the sky
Today is a good day.
Warm, too, and bright.
Too bad the weatherman says we’ll have a cold snap soon.
But now is a good time.
Now I have friends
Peace on my lips,
Yellow flowers around me.  

But frost creeps in through the night.
My window iced over
I’m trapped inside, between my thick skull and the world.
All I know is the chill.
Of emptiness, betrayal.
The happy yellow flowers are dead.
Today, you think, is a bad day.
You are wrong.

Today is a day of truth.
The day I let my loved ones live their lives
The day I get what I deserve.
Justice isn’t always good.
You know that, I know that.

And the flowers are dead.
Blossoms scattered over the ashy ground.
They never got a chance to say goodbye to
A final breath of light.
They’re gone and never will be back and how
Can you just sit there

Calm

Knowing they’re dead that they’ll never see the sun again
How can you manage ?
How can you keep

Breathing?

And

why?

my feet take me away
from the dark town
that shines pretty through the night and pretends everything’s
okay.
it’s not
it’s burning me from behind and it’s been hours,
i haven’t looked back yet.

i walk on the yellow line in the center of the two lane road
it's a zipper
and i am the pull
except nothing ever opens
it can’t because i’m broken.

crumpled paper to either side of me
mistakes surround me on this two-lane road
and i’ve been walking for hours
i’ve been walking forever.
and nothing's really changed
that town is right behind and gray fields of dirt are
still beside me
only i’m wearing away.

my shoes are torn and faded,
and my appearance finally matches
the rest of me.
i am a ghost,
walking on the lane divider because i am divided
and when the people go past they can not hurt me
if they can not see me.
still.

but every now and then someone will approach me from behind,
and tell me that it's all right,
i can go home now.
but they don’t know where my home is,
and i don’t either.
if i even have a home.

they’ll always look for a place for me
try fix me.
but all they’ll do is throw their words,
and bring their sticks and stones,
piling up my list of hurts


they expect me to catch their words
a gift or lifeline.
but i turn away because they’re fake.
they’re diamond because they
look pretty but they’re oh so hard
and they just chip away at me and make me fade.

and i turn away
because in grade school i was taught that looks
don’t matter.
and i fill my ears with silence because then the
words won’t hurt
so much.
so much.

and so i just keep moving on
but i still have road ahead
it's  crumpled paper
but i guess everybody makes mistakes.

and i if can leave the ones behind me in the past,
maybe nobody in that town ahead will care.
and most of my scars are inside
so maybe
nobody will see them
when they judge me

and really, so what if the paper in front of me is wrinkly
and made of mistakes?
i still have blood to write my future.
it won’t be as pretty as some lives.

but it's mine.