A love-lit bolt has run us through --
now less can never suffice.
So we wander in vain
through mist, through rain
for chance that it might strike twice.

Uncertainty wears combat boots
for what might lie ahead,
dressed to **** the coming thrill
and opt for something sure instead.

Ready to face the feasible,
the imaginable fall,
uncertainty wears combat boots
while elation wears nothing at all.

An existence quantified
in lowered eyes and
upside down pirouettes,
sighing with the stars
and dreaming of the hours
when gravity was forgiving
and the universe was
firmly right-side up.

Thunder falls silent, and none too soon,
before an empty throne --
a once-great beast
ere final feast
now sovereign of vapor and bone.

The earth packs tight between the treads
as needles break beneath,
while arches wander
ever fonder
of the rush their steps bequeath.

We remember what it sounds like --
euphoria hot off the wire,
a whisper down a twisted spine,
a barrage of internal cannon fire.
An epidermal power surge,
a taste of commotion worth living for.
We remember what it sounds like --
we just don't hear it anymore.

Some aspire to
breeze-bent meadowgrass
and cattail lullabies,
but are destined for
gravel under tires
and snow on the
mountaintops.
All things considered,
I don't mind the cold.

Stratus melts into the dunes
like they've never been apart --
a sugarcoated monochrome,
a love awash in early morning haze.

All systems froze
on the final inhale,
and frost filled in the gaps,
seeping, noiseless,
through the cracks
of a body now coursing
with the frigid inertia
of another November
come and gone,
leaving behind little more
than a spire of
crumbling birch bark
and a trail of frozen sap.

Dying embers send the last
of their flares up into the black
while we sit alongside and pray
that rescue never comes.

Linger long enough
and I'll join you under
the sagging porch roof,
beneath a night that
whispers sleepily
to fill the hours before
daylight wanders in
for the morning shift.
I'll rock myself to sleep
in the old bentwood,
and you'll drift off, too,
before Orion has a chance
to say hello
or goodnight,
but he won't hold it against you.
And I'll be gone when you wake up,
but linger long enough
and I may just come back again
to sit for a spell
beneath the universe,
on top of the world,
in the old bentwood.

The sky is falling
head over heels
for a world that doesn't
bother looking up.

Weary winds seek solace
in the arms of conifer giants,
having not yet discovered that
even mountain pines shiver
when winter is at its darkest.

We lusted after opulence
and immortality
while the ravens hungered
for September to douse their dwellings
in amber and burnt sienna.

I searched for starlight beneath the waves
while sand and sky wore matching shades of indigo
and remnants of reflected galaxies
drifted across the surface in plain view,
making their way lazily
to the shore where I once stood.

February's gaze wanders ahead to
the last week of April, engraved with the
scent of lavender soap and sun-dried earth.
But, as always, these faded days
can only take him so far.
Maybe next spring.

Ursa Major yawns,
knowing winter will
grant her no rest
nor hibernation,
for sleep does not come easy
beneath the weight of
the cosmos.

The hills speak fondly of us,
of morning hazes and astral downpours,
keeping their voices low as they
trace our names in the earth, sheltered
in the shadow of the tallest peak.

Storms pass overhead
as midnight lumbers out from
its hiding place among the stars
to get its feet wet
and enjoy the rain.

August leans in close,
its dew-stained breath no match
for the fawns who are still young enough
to leap through knee-high blades,
unencumbered by the warmth.
Perhaps we are still young enough
to join them before the wildflowers doze.

It strikes, not with a gale,
but with a drizzle of cherry blossoms
and a flurry of gentle chords.

The galaxy dances above the ether,
and the moon smiles at the melody,
knowing all the while
that it was written
just for her.