Would that I wave my hand
and gift the blooming of
spring flowers to you.
Or pray at the altar of winter’s slow fire
to melt away this frozen heart.
But a flurry of whiteout feelings  
blind me from such a pompous display
of naive romanticism.
Yet love is blind and love blinds.
Love binds and love breaks.
If you’ve lost the trail, you are the trail.
No one said this journey would be easy.
Actually, I don’t remember anyone telling me anything about this journey.
Rubber wood for legs and pursed lips
at the sound of a secret
taunting my ensemble soul from the wings.
Space enough to relay a message.
Distance enough to lose it.
The gathering at this point is a drift of tumbleweeds and the only thing
to read on the signs is rust.
So I reach down and grab a handful of dirt,
put it in my mouth, and whistle dixie
past this graveyard of doubt.
Just in time to see the last elephant
becoming the horizon
and the sun setting through the fog of memory.
That star burns in our mother tonight,
the mystery growing in the womb
of tomorrow.
“Come,” she says,
“the dawn breaks…for you.”