Sunrise to sunset—nay, even beyond,
time in commitment to accomplishment,
the world demands my efforts to respond,
but I am struck dumb with astonishment.

Starry nights mind thoughts I cannot control,
while azure skies beg me to live my dreams.
The unconscious desires of my soul
zealously dominate my conscious streams.

It is day! A new day, with much to do!
Still, those earthly needs have been pushed aside.
I cannot rid myself of thoughts of you—
and I can think of nothing else beside.

Day has come, though the sunrise should inspire,
you are the inspiration I require.

Left-handed, a lefty, the other arm.
It is forgotten because it’s weaker.
The other, extra, the one with no charm.
If it were a woman, none would seek her.

The sinister and the clumsy left hand.
Derogated abnormality.
Like an afterthought that was never planned.
Its only benefit is symmetry.

At least I could have been ambidextrous.
Then I’d be capable on either side.
I want perfection, not a little less.
This left hand is a source of wounded pride.

When can the useless ever find their place?
This dangling vestige had made me bereft.
But then I found that someone to embrace,
And I saw the potential I had left.

To turn jealousy to lost illusion,
and make love acceptable confusion.
This is the aim of trusted devotion—
love completely in spite of emotion.

To stay warm in the shiver of despair,
and to boldly love without fear of fear.
This is a healthy heart’s true sensation—
love love when loving feels like damnation.

To find comfort in intense affliction,
and then love with both doubt and conviction.
This is the comfort of a heart that’s sure—
loving an imperfect love that is pure.

To embrace the unknown and understand,
and find in small things a love to expand.
These are ways love’s paradoxes grow—
love is loving what love can never know.

The colors of the flower touched my eyes
like the warmth of summer air touched my skin.  
Like tenderness of your kiss touched my heart,
space between sense and feeling is so thin.

We’ve grown accustomed to this sacred space,
where we don’t notice the weight of the air.
Still, it touches every inch of our self,
a touch so light we act like it’s not there.

The physicality of our senses
is defined by near invisible touch,
of the lights, the colors and fragrances,
they touch like you, but not nearly so much.

A fluttering feather would crush mountains—
no touch is lighter than your fingertips.
Yet no sensation ever had more depth,
than the weightlessness of kissing your lips.

No one knows me better than my demons.
I’ve been caring for them, nurturing them
like a parent afraid to see them leave.

My demons have remained faithful to me.
There is no part of me more forgiving.
I’ve fought with them, and tried to destroy them.

But my demons never abandoned me.
They’ve stayed with me, always speaking to me
kindly, with their gentle, sensitive voice.

My demons are my intimate partner.
At my worst and earliest suffering,
they arrived, eager to help me adapt.

My demons epitomize devotion.
They don’t have feelings for anyone else.
They only care about protecting me.

Sometimes, I try to confront my demons.
And then they just listen, like a friend should,
and offer to let me live without them.

But my demons know better than I do.
Feeding on self-loathing, the more they eat,
the more self-loathing I am to become.

My demons have figured survival out.
If I just choose self-loathing over love,
they will stay a part of me forever.

I thought I heard a chirping bird
just about this morning’s sunrise.
Don’t think a mating call I heard—
sounded like a shriek of surprise.

I was surprised, too, and quite so.
Not from the bird’s chirp. Well, perhaps.
There were puddles instead of snow,
and snow-plowed mountains in collapse.

That chirping bird and I both saw
the cautious springing up of spring.
But while that bird sang to the thaw,
I don’t think I’m done worrying.

Seasons ’round here don’t change like that.
Although winter has one more freeze,
the bird on its Tree Ararat,
celebrates forty-five degrees.

This morning it was just one bird,
soon maybe crickets will chirp, too.
But I think spring is seen not heard,
and that chirp’s too good to be true.