Echoes of silence rippling through our veins;
The weight of the evening is shifting
From unseen words, lonely phrases
To midnight's twinkle and altruistic gazes.

You become my buoyant hammock,
With the surrender of sound,
My Maupassant,
But I am not found.

As you enfold me with one leg,
I am your darkroom so bright.
Gentle ticking,
Clockwork through the night.

As we bathe in the muteness of the hour,
I can hear your heart slowly beating
As I listen to our souls' casual meeting.

I am from a cluttered family tree and old wives' tales,
From coal-tinted clothes and the sound of our train.

I am from unridden bikes and muddy boots,
From gasping tears over puppies and kitties.

I am from The Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly
And counting cars on her tiny porch.

I am from "mmhm, mmhm," and "scratch my back,"
And "I love you bigger than the whole sky."

I am from singing when you don't feel like it and running to Granny's house,
From apples with salt and flimsy UNO cards.

I am from a chilly room that smells of old books,
From crouching beneath barbed-wire to gather blackberries.

I am from the house on the hill, the little back room,
From the gravel driveway and rusty Ol' Blue.

I am from the Frederick heritage, the Daugherty line,
From Isaiah 40:13 and "find your wings."

Why did she leave at a time like this?
Why does her house feel so empty?
Because it is.
How will I ever heal from this pain?
When will I -- what is that?
Is that a leaf? It's probably a leaf.
That green thing. Is that -- ?

A woman
Promenading through the trees,
With a scarf hanging down to her knees,
A handiworker's pleasant surprise,
It's one shade deeper than her eyes.
She's clutching her tote
As I try to stay afloat;
I'm drowning in this beauty.
She's gathering blackberries
And singing our tune,
The one with no words that oft' ends too soon.

I'm lying in the weeds,
Her green scarf clutched in my palms,
And it's getting easier to breathe.

Inside my four walls,
Not much is seen.
The same people day after day,
Their actions always precise and clean.

"What's out there?" I wonder,
"Outside of my four walls?"

"Only horrible things," my tenants explain
"It's a place you don't belong."
When my bricks were fresh, this was enough
To help me press wearily along.

"What's out there?" I wonder still,
"Outside of my four walls?"

My curiosity eventually overcame my build.
I needed to experience the outsiders' guild.
My bricks ached, my woodwork choked,
Until finally

clouds birds sun wind lights chatter

These sights and these sounds,
Some beautiful and some not,
Flung debris on the ground
And to my architecture brought

A beautiful hypethral view

Blue frock, blonde curls,
Honest Abe catches her eye.
A luster hidden in this ground dry,
She clutches it close to her pearls.
The pearls her mother did supply
One by one from a cloth unfurled.

This small treasure is worth, at best,
A million times its price.
This beauty that appears precise
Differs far from all the rest.

Its copper shines brighter than
If it were replaced with gold.
And, try as she may, its finder can-
Not leave this gift at home.

The photo, wrinkled and flavored with time,
That passed all too abruptly. But it shows
Smiling faces, eyes closed in laughter's rhyme,
The laughter that ever so smoothly flows

Through my past; it is my favorite mem-
Ory. It lingers in my lowest play
To catch my heart off guard. The waving limb
Of my family tree started with this face.

How blessed to have this fleeting moment caught!
My past, entangled in this candid shot.

We dance on the rocks and talk about God
the white noise makes a bubble
the broken piece is beautiful in a way
like a challenge
and if we sat there for a hundred years the trees would still feel our presence for a hundred more
making our first impressions the least of our worries
for if God clothes the flowers then how
much more will he clothe you?