the azalea grew there
twenty years,
its grey body now
but scratchy bones,
browned blossoms
to ponder
until someone with courage
pronounces it over

cuts barren spines down,
and mulches the ground
with faded smiles
aged between pages
found saved in a shoebox
string-tied tight in darkness

will we still want spring
when we remember
our missing fuchsia
or discover
a new color to admire,
forget it ever was,
as we’ve manged
to forget laughter
in passionless winter

Air fills with sharp shrills of jays,
the sounds
gratuitous warning
for feet adapted
to ground-
better directed
at a stray cat
that will dare limbs
in hope of his prize

dreamer's ears once heard
melodies of Verdi arias
through leaves,
their sweetness seeping
as from blue overhead
and imagination lured
to seek beauty in them

learning from too often falling,
wishes earning scars
that made skin numb and hard,
morning's music found muffled
by deaf cowardice,
its promise of safety
worn on gray,
dusty shoes

Wondrous passion, in fury found
manic strokes of oil
never thick enough to cover
burning doubts that cloud
the soul of genius;
we merely ponder
that which angels
finally plundered,
lingering over lunch of crumbs
left aside his table turned over,
wondering why he never
loved himself as much as we avow,
now grasping at tendrils stars leave
as they fall from his sky

In somber autumn dreams
we watch as clocks melt,
time the illusion once felt
on a creaking porch swing
one summer somewhere

when fireflies held in our hands
transcended brilliance of stars
because we sat there together
hiding smiles in the dark,
believing there was forever

Oh decry the weakness of our condition,
sets brother on brother,
us versus them
as we march under banners
we’ve made to define us,
hurling words as stones
to defile and ****** the other,
huddle and glorify those loose strands
of similarity that bind the camps
we choose to be in

There is no such thing
as peace we've ever made,
only those lulls which prepare us,
tracing shapes
of the next enemy faced,
togetherness an ideal for armies
marched in lockstep.

Good God!
Were we ever in His image?
Recalcitrant, misfit
creators of the better death
Then suffer so, those who love the weak;
they own multitudes of sins
never answered,
intent yet to invent one
which will make Satan quiver,
finally prove mastery of all universes.
But they are our kin, so love them we must

tongues learned new languages,
swirling around satin stanzas
tasting sweet nectar hidden within -
retracing trails in new words learned,
hoping to memorize
each glistening jewel of dew
lest it all be forgotten
among the petals

in moist breath,
shared prayers heard whispered
their shapes lost meaning -
old symbols like bodies of flesh,
only vessels of meaning -
when souls found meeting
all edges melted
existence reflected in eyes
of another

Where to put the corruption -
fluid-filled half-lungs
choked on their coughs;
until fatigue made them
tentative motions
lived on knives' edges
slipped to flesh too often;
medications eased our pain,
tubes ******* up questions
we didn't want answered.
there were no more procedures -
clinical masks hiding fears
under dry medical terms
could finally be abandoned,
traded for tears shared with the window

Death waited to steal in the room
when our backs were turned;
we let lights burn in daylight
and night to scare away demons
even for a mind too tired to read.
every word yet put to page
had been made irrelevant -
she read mountains in distance,
climbed apple trees
at home again in Pennsylvania,
savoring redness of skinned knees;
sat on dusty mesas and prayed
for things no men had seen.

The child, still afraid of darkness,
begged "if only you would eat?"
but she smiled weakly,
as if embarrassed her secret
had been discovered
and asked me to flip the switch
so she might sleep;
son, always the obedient one,
turned off the light before he left.