Before dawn the front thundered in
launching with its deluge
the first glimpse
of an approaching winter.
To how many more autumns
will I bid farewell
before my own returns me to heaven?

The builders let me visit here
free to roam the halls.
They’ve built some walls
and stairs
to upper floors with streaming light
and to a darkened basement.

I’m honored to be allowed here
to write words on the wood
to see pages posted that could
render me speechless if I let them.
But instead, these writings of pain
these revelations of shame
are like knives that pierce my heart
and I pour it out on the floor
and ceiling and dark corners
through the windows
into the night
into the light.

The builders nail their dreams
and desperation and beams
of hope, desire and grief
and lattice of love and belief
trying to do their part to complete
the work of this edifice rising
each day each hour
we builders immigrants
looking for home.

Walking down a forest path
I encountered a puddle.
Upon stopping I could see
a thin coat of oil floating there
the sun caught it just right
to see a rainbow in the glare
and tiny luminous unfixed bubbles moved by air.
Confined in this small muddy world
the oil and each of its parts
glowed as if to assert its beauty and freedom.

My fascination
became a reflection
of my confined small worlds
but floating and free
as I try to be me
in this sea.

“Don’t fall in love with lonely because you’ll end up that way.”  -  Bruce Springsteen

The day is cloudy
I’m overcast and lost
in my little world
trapped by shrinking horizons.
I hear a cardinal singing
look around for his red glory
wonder where he has flown
he in his freedom to roam.
I envy his winged flight
the whole land in his sight
his mate and sparrows and jays
up there with him beyond the haze
of these sad and lonely days.

For some it might be arduous
an obligatory response
to get from here to there
so you’ll know I’m here
to see if you’re there.

But for me it is air
my oxygen
inspire – to catch your spirit
expire – to leave mine.
It is how I renew my life
how I die… just a little
with each stroke of the pen
each tap of the keys.

It is living.
Without it
I leave you
I leave me.

I strum these lines
beat the drum of their rhythms
the dark of their repetitions
are the veins of my redemption.

My lines are letters to you
and when you reply
your words are blood of your life
not so much a flood as arteries of light
and along these lines your grace tries
to reach me and squelch my lies.