Like a new leaf
Turned over,
And blooming in spring,
Some days
I'll grow
With the light.
But all new leaves
Require rain to grow,
So some days
Will pour
I know.
And when storms break
And I'm fighting
In the dark,
Feeling like I did
In the fall,
I'll shake,
Draw a breath,
Take a sip,
Find a spark,
And give thanks
That I'm growing
At all.

If it all ends in the summertime
I should like to lay under a massive tree.
I will be surrounded by love and music,
And slip away,
My final moments spent in warmth.
My favorite.
If it all ends in the fall
I should like to see Orion one last time.
I will be surrounded by smells and festivity,
And travel through the veil,
My final moments growing shorter,
Like the days.
If it all ends in the winter
I should like the mountains to take me.
I will be surrounded by shadows and myths,
And face the whipping, inevitable cold,
My final moments a reflection on all the springs I saw.
Perfect poetry.
If it all ends in the spring,
I should count myself lucky.
I will be surrounded by flowers and rabbits,
And I will rest easy,
My final moments spent in light,
Remembering. Passing. Cycling.
On to life anew.

I hear it before I see it -
A steady everywhere-roar.
A sleepy tumble
to slide the slats of blinds
confirms:
Turbulent and torrential
puddles seem to leap
ever-so-slightly skyward
with each wet wallop.
It is the determined,
slantwise
rain of change,
blustering with purpose,
washing winter woes.
I dress -
  pink galoshes
  pink slicker
  pink smile
To greet this
Gray April Shower

It is a strange moment -
a change in the wind, perhaps? -
a shift ever so slight
when I discover
that the next time your eyes drift skyward
and you brightly propose,
"It's nearly the season
for us to go stargazing!"
I will not wander through the valleys
of misplaced envy, grace, and doubt,
before laughing, sighing, and shrugging,
"Yes! We should! Well... Goodnight!"
That instead
I will send my eyes aloft
to meet those flecks of dreams and dew,
before laughing, sighing, and shrugging,
"Well... How about tonight?"

I struggle to hold myself up
(to a standard, to an ideal,
of self-care, self-respect,
and protection of heart)
But this is a slide
that I have no power over.
This force that pulls me -
(yes, this very idea has gravity)
- This force is unrelenting,
gnawing, sneaky, persistent,
not intentional or malicious,
simply inevitable.
It is a slow erosion
taking a mountain out to sea
when I look,
and a great landslide
swiftly collapsing
when I turn my back.
Where once,
I hung precariously,
I was at least secured
in a temporary equilibrium.
But now
just one cord snaps
and I am swinging,
falling,
a safety net not yet woven.

As Baudelaire said:
"Be always drunk,
on wine, poetry, virtue"
or what-have-you.
And after sobering
from aurelian dawns
and whiskey-drenched stars,
I find solace in tipsiness
on irreverent magic eyes
from the bottom of a margarita
or a paint-stained enigma
from behind a glass of red.
Slowly, carefully, languidly,
Quietly.
Flirting with possibilities
of being drunk once more.

If I'm being honest,
I press my lips to the glass
To follow you down.
I am a message in an opened bottle
But I keep pace
With your sips
Hoping our loose lips
Might, together, launch ships.

If I'm being honest,
I sip the nectar of intoxication
To make excuses.
I am sure of my sober thoughts
But I know
Under night's tender spell
Is where we might tell
All truth before morning's knell.

If I'm being honest,
I'm already one ahead
To calm my racing heart.
I have rehearsed this conversation alone
Hoping to finally break
Past the short ending
Through the faltering and shaking
To say the things we are longing.

If we're being honest,
We're getting toasted
Just to loiter.
We keep turning the hourglass over
Buying more time
With water in bars,
Playlists in parked cars,
And chilly walks under the stars.