this morning
I felt it in a damaged knee
smelled it on the air
watched the clouds with
knowing atici…………pation
winter was coming
and its brutishness
would not easily go unnoticed  --
the steady preparatory ant
the fattened bear
thick with salmon grease
and sedge grass
ole man Barkley
splittin’ cord wood
dark brown chew spit
trickling from the corner of his
downturned mouth…
and the migrating geese –
my skin prickles at the air
and the visions of the season to come
holiday meals and family gatherings
cooking and sharing
little rolling hills for sledding
trimming a tree
in the cozy warmth
of our country home –

People seem to be
          sincere
when they say
to me
          thank you
for your service.

Perhaps they are.

But if they knew      
what I
          know...

Heard men screaming
for their mommies that I
          still hear,

Smelled
the ****** and
charred flesh I still
          smell,

dreamed
the dreams of gore,
not glory, I still
          dream,

I think
they would
          tell
the truth:

better you,
          than me,

Which may be
all they are really saying
          anyway.
   _mce

I remember
when you were young and wide eyed
excited at the possibility of the world
and afraid because it was all so big and you,
you were the smallest creature in a forest full of monsters

still, you had big dreams and wanted
so badly to write something
so unique and profound
something to make people understand you
understand themselves
see that we are all one
know that we all bleed the same
slippery shades of water color
even if the canvas is is different

Fear is an ugly thing and overshadows
and overwhelms, *******
the life out of life
and the colors out of the rainbow that
is supposed to shine overhead and keep
the bad the things at bay

it crawls into bed with you at night and
keeps you awake, drilling
everything that is wrong
straight through your skull and
into your soul like a
woodpecker, never ceasing
never letting you rest

there is so much that is so hard
to comprehend and make sense of
and it is so much easier to let the fear
take hold of you, wrap it's fingers
tightly around your neck
a noose growing ever tighter, strangling
while you struggle until
you have no voice left to speak

It left you choking
out fragments
and run-on sentences into a journal
that no one would ever see
that still makes me burn when
I flip through those pages reliving
the story of my life that you wrote
all those years ago

I remember
when you thought that no one could see you,
so you lived your life like a child
jumping up to see over the counter,
making make-shift ladders out of whatever
you could find so that you could grasp
everything that always seemed so far above your reach,
losing yourself so easily
in a sea of people
because they were so big
and you were
nothing

You words are a time capsule
that bring me back to a place when
when we stared at each other in the mirror
and curled our tiny fingers into a fist
wanting to smash the glass
because
we were ugly

But my words are a time machine,
my gift to you from the future

You are small still,
but the world is not as big as it used to be
and nothing ever comes easy
but your dreams are coming true,
you did not give up despite
believing so often that you would fail and
you are making a difference

I am afraid
because
everyone is afraid, but
I stand in front of the mirror
young and wide-eyed,
excited about the possibility of the world
and when I look at you now, I know
that we are learning to love each other
finally.

I want to write a story called
Pink Heather
about a soul that felt blue
A girl not yet herself,
an entirely wrong hue

His fingers run through my hair...
Just as yours did.
Palms large and soft; the wind dares
To graze my skin.

The wind is a man; I wish he were you.

His breath on the nape of my neck...
Kissing furthermore.
Giving my nose a swift peck...
Rattling the door.

The wind is a man; I wish he were you.

Forming tears without trying...
Cold blow to the face.
He kisses before biting.
Nips in the same place.

The wind is a man; I wish he were you.

Reminds me of what once was:
Summer days... cold nights.
Whispers of our eros love...
Blown out candlelight.

The wind is a man; I wish he were you.