remember marjorie,
and how her footsteps

pattered quietly
after the rain,

how she rarely smiled
with her lips

but always let you know
what she was up to
with her eyes.

with her, came the day.

in this darkest of nights,
i remember

the sweetness
of her laughter,

the bold redness of
her moon-like cheeks.

her sweetest
smiles come not

off wide-eared grins but
rather the slightest

twitch
of an ear,

the gentlest slant
of her lips.

a sudden ring
pierces through the stillness of the night.
he says that he's just outside the door.
he says that he's waiting for me.

12:02 am:
the start of a midnight fantasy

i put on my sweater and slippers.
taking quiet and careful steps,
i escape the four corners of reality and
plunge into the chilly air and the sea of moonbeams.
a warm embrace and a playful laugh welcomes me.

we walk
under the comets and constellations
kicking away pebbles and fallen autumn leaves,
dancing to the beat of our hearts
at the empty city street.

we arrive at the store;
the stark fluorescent light floods our eyes as
i push open the foggy glass door.
he pays pennies, paper bills,
and an encouraging smile
to the lonely counter cashier.

we feast on steaming cups of noodles and
a bag of cheesy chips while
telling stories of the past and
sharing ideas of the future.
we paint visions in our heads,
etch promises in our hearts.
all these with laughter,
echoing to our very souls.

bliss
makes the hours fly by.
the pink hues of dawn chases the moon away.
basking in its gentle rays,
we watch the waking of the sun
as it rises from behind the hills and rooftops.
and like the glorious light,
joy and hope surges through our veins.
and though we don't even touch
we feel love's embrace.

there is a sudden sweep of panic though.
before our parents wake up
we bid each other
thank you and goodbye
and run back to our homes.

but
no matter what,
we know
surely and sincerely
that no morning can ever end our
midnight fantasy.

i get lost in the
valleys but You
always bring me
to a clearing

To be one day performed in sign language*

Perhaps
You could call it
Music—
A gentle guitar
Solo,
Or even a piercing
Voice clear
And high.

Silence is a song.

I know
And you do too.

Well,
Perhaps I don't
As much as you would.

There is a cadence
To the way
Our pens
Twist and turn
Like my grandfather's
Heyday.

There is an art
To the way
Your fingers
Seem to curve
At the slightest
Twitch
Of your lips.

Your body's language
Is like an evergreen
Dance—
Eyes, hands, feet wide
Open to the
Rhythms of the world.

And what a stunning
Beat it drums.