I remember the day I heard the bird bark.
Flying into the future, a plethora of dark.
He dropped from the top, falling into a soar.
Forgetting the cage, trapped by the door.

There is a God
I've witnessed his work.
But it wasn't in a pew,
on Sunday,
at church.

I want to listen to the music that our bodies make,
when it's only you and I in the room.
Whether it's touching, or kissing, or talking when it's late.
I just want to feel in tune.

The vase was always filled with flowers.
They fought often.
He thought she could smell forgiveness with a dozen roses.
The thorns were a stabbing reminder.
For every time she trimmed them, she bled.
The scars made her ugly.
The aroma drove her crazy.
The curse was the beauty that no longer belonged there.

Tangled in yarn, he purred.
Like a kilowatt humming through the extension cord.
When he wasn't a blue cat, he was gray.
When he wasn't being played with, he was stray.
But his attitude made all the difference.
A rule of thumb for his mere existence.
"I think it's almost golden, no I know it's almost golden."
Color blind it was his silver lining.

Just because you can turn her on
doesn't mean you'd get her off.
Black flies in Sangria
are bound to make her cough.

We froze over.
It grew colder and colder.
Exhaling crystals that we'd choke on.
The log cabin was in the distance.
The Great-Horned Owl was perched and waiting.
Never did he anticipate we wouldn't show.
The storm was supposed to be a reflection of character.
Not an abstract piece of art with no clarity.
So here's to the cold hearted, the arctic, the iceberg.
The tongue forever stuck to the flagpole.
Where the warmth won't reach.
Where the feet become rooted to an easier survival.
A standoff between the tree and the axe.