Take up your baton.
Warm up the orchestra
Make ready for
the sweetness to come.

Strum up the violins my maestro.
I want to hear the song
that awakens the senses
just once more.
It is my favorite one.
It never grows old.
It has been played for me
time and time again
but the notes still vibrate
through my soul.

Tune our instruments
to the purest note.
Make sure they resonate in sync.
The drumming will not keep time
but the beat stays
rhythmic and steady.
Our instruments perform
harmoniously.

Slow it down maestro
I wish to hear
The notes
One
At
A
Time…

Perfection.
Beauty.
Soul.
The theme of our melody.

Prepare me for the crescendo.
Let the beat transfer
from the rhythmic drumming
to the excitement
of my chaotic heart.

End our song with a
down tempo
from the wind instruments.
Allow it to drift
softly
to the final
rest.

I look out the window at the empty
acres that spread across
the Missouri plains.
My mind wanders through the fields
of memories that house you.
Nothing is empty there.
That's when I realize
I'm almost home.
Finally.

I woke this morning
to the nightmare being real.
You had been gone so long.
My heart was aching
and I had dreamt of you
night after night,
and you were gone.

But this morning
when I woke
the nightmare was alive.
You had been gone so long
and my heart had been aching,
so as I sat up in tears,
you wrapped me up and said,
“I’m never leaving you again my love.”

That was a dream.
It was the best kind of dream.
The kind that is so vivid,
so bright.
I could smell the sent of your skin.
Touch the scruff on your chin.
Kiss those lips which held that grin.

It was my favorite dream,
but that's all it was.
Just a dream,
and when I awoke
you were still gone.
Unlike in my dream.

Outside this window the air
bites the faces of pedestrians
in the streets below.

Despite the argument
between the bitter cold
and the approaching nightfall
the people seem happy
to ignore the tussle
that has begun to shake
the leaves from the trees.

The glass panes sweat
with nervous hot flashes.
The brightly lit coffee shop
is a sanctuary amidst
the concrete tundra.
People scurry to the red hue
that melodically flickers
like a rising fire.

Warm mochas and foaming milk
calm the chills and frighten
the geese from our skin.
While the sauna in their bellies
heat their core; for a short time
the grey skies are forgotten.
The substance numbs the cold.

But if the awareness of this chilly solstice
is put aside completely and preparation
for the snipping wind is side stepped,
then where would we be?

Happy to ignore our surroundings,
Content with freezing.

Multicolored streamers and confetti
decorate the room.
They hang from the wineglass rack
and family members alike.
Frank Sinatra sings with all his might,
but the orchestra of noise makers and laughter
plays a more beautiful tune.

Eyes wide open and observant
I soak in la fiesta.
Poppa twirls Nenita
around the kitchen,
Uncle plays a tune on la guitara,
some sing along,
primos play Mother May I
in the hall,
and everyone drinks
to health,
to love,
to money,
and to time.

Papo cracks the champagne.
Las tias gather the troops
to prepare for the toast!
Los ninos lift empty glasses
“We want some too!”
receiving the un-intoxicating
alternative instead.
Wishing to be older.
Wanting the real thing.

A toast is said in unison,
for it is one we all know.
It is one that I am old enough for.
“Salud, amor, pesetas, y
tiempo para gastalo”
then we all drink
to health
to love
to money
and time to enjoy it all.

Dean Martin sings with all his might,
But the laughter and merriment
play a more memorable tune.
The morning sun
will take us our separate ways,
so for now we drink
to what matters most.

Salud, amor, pesetas,
y tiempo para gastalo.

Your lights could illuminate stories
Until confetti filled the room
And the New Year rose.

Windows are like a gateway to the future
But gaze inward, for the past
Is so very present in
Our views.

Corridors echo whispers
Of thousands of voices
That have long since ceased
To walk this earth,
Yet we make new whispers
For only the walls to hear.

So many stories are written
On the air that is trapped
Inside your doors,
But none are sweeter
Than the one we are
Drafting right
Now.