Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

It was a cold time. I lay in the frost
alone, immobile and blue from the treacherous
air, but then you passed and lay with me just
to keep me warm, seeing something worth saving
in my empty eyes. It was a cold life.
Yet movement came back to me, dispelling
the ice and banishing it from my heart.
You were the fire for me, the fire that gave
me my sight and filled my eyes with starlight.
The fire that heated me and danced with a
scarlet tranquility in the night, calling
me forward into safety and saving
me from the wind which so harshly froze my being.