Sunrise at 4 am.
Birdsong before my alarm.  
Outside an open
Bedroom window

I saw no reason to greet
Another day with other than
Gratitude.

A deer drinking dew from
Leaves, startled by a
Fox, then, seeing no threat,
Continued to make
My morning.

Colder inside this house
Than in the evening sun outside.
I suppose old buildings
Breathe, like all
Living things do.

Aloneness. Never lonely.
Why was I meant for
Solitude? The despair it
Provokes within those who
Wish to

Connect is as much my
Burden as theirs.
To belong to and own.
Spacelessness. Sharing
My whole self. No.

I wish them more warmth
Than anyone will ever find
With me,
Yet I hear the voices
Of mothers shielding

Daughterhearts with double
Edged shields;
Don't be afraid
Child. It's only the
Devil.

I suppose all I'll
Ever need is another odd
Soul like mine, waving from
Inside another freezing, distant
Dwelling.

My hands are winters.
My chest is a cave so cold
My tears well up
Like mounds of
Snowflakes, and fly.

Having tempered myself beyond
My limits, I withdraw to default;
The arctic within; home. Your
Fire is blinding. I only have
Ice for you.

My great uncle
Walking our fields
Found a bronse sword once.

Later, he stumbled upon
A stone age axe,
Both dutifully

Handed over to the local
Museum.
When that man lost his

Bronze sword (or died wielding it),
That stone axe
Was already an ancient

Treasure buried in the
Rich soil, awaiting a tractor's
Plow to toss it up into the

Sunlight, thousands
Of years
Later

Hearts of Time,
Ribcage free.
Seeing sun.

Does this hurt?*
Yes.

It hurts like seeing your
Childhood home for the last time.

Nothing stings like your skin catching
Sparks from a bridge burning,

Like resting scalpel on chest and
Sliding to access the heartful of

Thorns, then changing to tools of
Extraction.

What am I doing here, would be
The last words they'd watch me

Think. Now I remain with the
Question, eyes turned to where I'd

Like to see Heaven holding divine
Wisdom and offering it,

Getting nothing but rain in my eyes
And silence.

All homes are temporary.
The smell of lilac floating down

The street will always take me back
To when that bridge connected one heart

Set on forever to one set on for now.
I run the tips of my fingers across

The scar of scalpel; a map from Death to
Life; lying flatline;

Temporary, temporary rest.
I was never meant to stay, I whisper

Into what I know is coming.
Will this hurt?

Yes.
*Good.

Work gloves are for winter.
It's time to grow thick skin
In our palms;
Red drops on white wood

Are sure signs of summer.
Soon splinters reach no
Nerves, knees become insensitive
To gravel and roof tile roughness

As our bodies learn the annual
Lessons many hearts fail to
Learn in a
Lifetime.

I held her hair for her, and
Found poetry in the back of
Her head where more
Careful lovers
Have eyes.

I cursed the alcohol making
Her cheeks and heart wet with
Painful thoughts without
Root in reality,
But none of

My prayers could turn the
Wine to water, as grapes
Became teardrops in
Her blood.
So I carried

Her to my bed. On the
Side of my king sized
Compassion for old, old pain, I
Sat down and was
Silent until her

Heart followed my lead,
And my hand found the
Poetry, stroking it
Like a parent
Until

It no longer rhymed
Or made any sort of
Sad sense
At
All.