is the illusion of love
preferable to love no longer?
even a shriveled heart
dry as a prune
grows plump with tears
for what is not there.

i hear the cranes again
riding the thermals upward
this warming morning
calling and circling, they
fall into the long v shape
an arrow swiftly northbound

artlessly
i cast my thoughts into space
deliberate obfuscation
small metaphors and speculations

i do not keep
written records of my follies
they arrive at the speed of light.
belonging only to themselves.
flickering blazing dying
ashes to ashes
settling dust.