My days had gone by more quickly than a weaver’s shuttle,
And they came to an end without hope.
     - Until I looked back at the tapestry that had been woven.

now i remember that you saw the night

properly

while here we wondered, got lost in our

head

looked up and found the morning had

come pink again

scattered light in particular places

the other in shade

Storm herald, you are; cold wind so urgent.
The frigid gust that tenses skin and straightens hair.

You woke me.
You broke me.

Broke like the first hard rain on dry, cracked soil.
Lazy petrichor, pervasive and benevolent.

You’re in me.
You’re on me.

On me like the heavy heat of a sticky summer night.
The damp air perspiring in the absence of the sun.

You quelled me.
You held me.

Held me like a moment ere the fall.
Beyond the edge where only canyon walls await.

You caught me.
You’re not me.

Not me when I break like so many promises-
On the tongues of those who meant well.

You heal me.
You see me.

See me like the dappled sun through leaves-
That strain to keep their grip upon the branches.

You fought me.
You taught me.

Taught me like the goal was absolution-
Where the judges held the glass.

You feel me.
You hear me.

Hear me like the pleas of fated ghosts-
Intent on salvaging eternity.

You own me.
You’ve shown me.

Shown me radiance on windows-
Warmth that melts the morning frost, unbidden.

The wind has stopped
blowing
A leaf settles slowly
on quicksand
and does not sink
The wind has
stopped howling in
the canyons
but the fires
burn on
and you
dare not
walk across
the quicksand
to put them
out.
       ljm

From the outside in daylight my
large front porch windows are
nearly as reflective as mirrors.
Birds often mistake them for
open space fly zones.

Today I watched in horror as a
stalwart resolute Towhee fell for
the visual illusion, flying full tilt
into the window, impacting,
bouncing recoiling, reversing
and then trying it yet again!

The second impact bounced him
out onto the lawn, where he laid
stunned, feet pointing to the sky
for perhaps a minute.

I watched helplessly as eventually
he struggled to rise, then into the air
he drunkenly took wing, away from
the porch, turned and flew directly
back onto his delusion of freedoms
space. The sound of the impact
sickened me.

One minute alive the next he lay
dead on the stone porch. A victim
of his instinctive inherit perseverance
for freedom.

We humans; perhaps all living creatures
are not so different than this little bird,
our innate instincts can and often do lead
us down the wrong paths, even to bad
endings. I buried the little downed flyer
beneath my favorite Birch tree in the
garden. To ensure that our Barn Cats
did not add the indignity of being eaten
to the little flyer's untimely demise.

Those first Thursdays you were ringless -
we were cloud-shares with starry bearings,
lakes of mercury eeling under our skins,
small moon-screens in our palms.

And then, on that nervy warm nightwalk
when I was about to ask you to coffee,
you pricked the air and felt me leaning:
Ah... you're married, ten years now.

Flirtations wilt into aches.
Yet even now, as you wing away,
a streetlight's encore sprays pinked spangles,
& storybook trees are shushly budding.

The rain comes and goes.
Ribs and thews pull into a heart,
even as the evening pulls apart
with a bird's telephone step.

When I was  
younger,
I had to learn
sit and wait to  
write.  
I  would get
impatient and force it.
If you read it,
you could tell.
Now I’m quite a bit older, and
I quit trying.
Fodder seems to be  
everywhere.
I can write about
the most mundane
things.
Today I’m at the  
library waiting for my
girlfriend to
finish up at the dentist.
She’s getting her  
teeth cleaned.
All my drinking ruined  
my teeth.
When I got them  
pulled a year ago,
there wasn’t a  
good tooth in my head.
I have dentures now, so
I don’t have to  
worry about how much I drink.
I know this isn’t a
very good poem, but
hey,
there she is
all shiny and bright…  
and sober.