Rain forgets itself.
It falls, it breaks, it unnames.
I long to follow.

We are led by our own desires

Not inspired by God

The wish is father to the thought

Born from what's desired

Born of frost, in winter’s breath,
Her fate entwined with silent death.
A river ran in crimson streams,
Her mother’s wail, a fractured dream.

The forest claimed her as its own,
A shadowed child, lost, alone.
With foxes burrowing, berries sweet,
And shattered shells at small, bare feet.

Her world, a kingdom vast and wild,
A wraith she grew, the forest’s child.
Candles lit in pinecone glow,
Companions through the biting snow.

Yet love, the cruel and gracious thorn,
Pierced her heart, her soul forlorn.
Betrayed by promises, starlit lies,
A future lost in shadowed skies.

Veins of lapis, raven's beaks,
Mark her skin with wisdom’s streaks.
The moon, her mother, pulls the tide,
While stars like puppeteers preside.

Her hands, they grind the herbs of night,
Awaiting dreams that bring no light.
Ivy whispers beneath the frost,
The snow mutters of all she’s lost.

In the stillness of the winter’s hue,
A wraith remains, both old and new.
Her fate, her sorrow, her tale untold,
A heart of ash, a soul of cold.

bert is no name for a storm, more like a neighbour in green road that time back, or the uncle  i was told of yet never met.

grey flannels with braces and maybe a moustache.  growing vegetables down the back and interested in  pigeons.

even a foster parent  playing the guitar to make one feel comfortable

while feeding you a kipper  for supper.

perhaps then an apt name after all

We met three times
Over fifteen years.
The disagreement paled
In light of his diagnosis.

He unexpectedly appeared
At my door, then stood in my kitchen.
He had a few serious questions
About brotherly affections,
And after spitting into my sink
(the poor man)
He wondered if I thought less of him
For not sending cards at Christmas and birthdays.
Is that what he came to say?

Next was at our last family wedding.
He was still steady on his feet.
We were five Irish lads.
The sisters said he was the handsome one.
He was.
There are six of us posing in this final shot.
He's wearing a Lucille Ball tie,
Losened around his neck,
Yet covering the gill-like scar
Running from lobe to lobe.
His hands are buried deep
In his pants' pockets.
His smile says Good-bye.

I saw him for the last time
A few weeks later,
Standing, bent and coughing
At the intersedtion of the roadway and Nature Trail.
His rib cage raging from contortions.
He waved off an offered ride.
And then he was gone.
It took us years to get here.

I am falling apart in the cradle
of your naked hands.
My body, nailed to the cross
of heaven, tries to please
silence.

I touch your delicate wrists
subtly, I read the prophecy
and the lost heartbeat
in them.

I approach your vast chest,
I search for the stars on it
that would show me
the way back to love.

My sticky fingers brush
your green words; thoughts
envy their own names.

Covered with a blanket
woven from your dream,
I long to reconcile with my soul,
to regain control of my heart.

Please, kiss my temples, let me
feel the glow
of your broad shadow.
I am not the lie that youth
fights for.