I arose slowly like the morning sun,
Consciousness begun as a bit of light,
To a place where the day and I are one,
Leaving behind the discontent of night.

The sun must have so much love for the dawn,
For the kisses given its sun-kissed rays,
Relieved the false light of the moon is gone,
Dream kisses pale in light of those by days.

The sun each morn smiles as its loves renew,
Warming dreams gone cold under moonlit air,
To dream of soulmates under midnight blue,
A poor substitute for you being there.

The best of dreams are gone without a trace,
When in the morn I wake to see your face.

The severity of wanting
Blessed wanting
Wanting to want
What you already have.

Feeling desire so haunting
Piercing desire
Desire desire
Love you already love.

An incomplete love lacks wanting
Cursed wanting
Not what it wants
More, less or diff’rent love.

I want a love I want to love
Love not wanting
A wanting love
This love I want to want.

My tears owe themselves to delight,
Flowing feeling I cannot fight,
Same tears that were sadness at night
Blur my eyes in elation’s light.

My tears owe to feelings so strong,
A heart that’s been toyed with too long,
Same tears for no love to belong
Celebrate that I was so wrong.

My tears owe to struggles with fate,
Lost loves to which none can relate,
Same tears cry alone while they wait
Flow from the joy of my soulmate.

My tears owe to emotions raw
Convinced I was creation’s flaw,
Same tears of shame as I withdraw
Thankful I embrace love with awe.

True love seeks a silent place,
A peace of unburdened voice,
Where lovers speak face to face
Without the past’s background noise.

Experience digs a pit
Crumbling love’s foundation,
For two lovers must commit
To a brand new creation.

Lessons learned in agony
That true love should leave behind
Are the cruelest irony,
And so hard to leave behind.

Isn’t “love” more varied than “snow,”
For which there’s more than fifty words,
In language of the Eskimo?

No two loves are ever the same,
It’s the greatest understatement,
Two loves should not have the same name.

Love’s a unique organism
With its own character and traits,
And not by nominalism.

Love. A word so insufficient.
For each time I say “I love you,”
It feels horribly deficient.

The trees have shed everything in defiance of frozen air,
Nudely and bravely they boast of their strength with a stoic’s stare.
Their leaves have deserted them, their fruit has fallen, they don’t care.
The trees in January stand strong in loneliness, and bare.

Is their naked strength in the wind how they are supposed to be?
Do they welcome autumn, to rid themselves of their greenery?
Perhaps they don’t notice that the lives they gave have set them free?
They have lost something beautiful, but are they less of a tree?

Spring water flows into their roots, branches drop their icy weight,
The first sun-kissed buds emerge to witness the tree foliate.
But does the tree even notice this, its cause to celebrate?
The tree is at its life-giving most, but it does naught but wait.

The tree changes before me, and because of it I change, too.
But in that moment, when I love that tree, it feels nothing new.
And I think back, if the moment someone loved me, if I knew?
But I am too like the tree, oblivious to what is true.

The world presents too few opportunities
To say “I love you,”
Perhaps because the feeling arises constantly,
And I am not near you
As often as I would need to be
Each time the spirit moves me.

I can think “I love you” each time I see you
Whether real or dreamt,
But what good is this perpetual thought if
You don’t know it
Then, in that instant
Each time the spirit moves me?

Your existence surpasses all time and space.
To say “I love you”
Feels smaller than the grandeur of those moments,
Those fleeting moments
You occupy in me
Each time the spirit moves me.

My courtship is like autumn chill,
An omen to the nervous trees,
Who hold their warmth by staying still,
Before the comfort of green flees.

The steady chill has no effect,
The leaves resist their urge to fall,
The branches hold ever *****,
Resisting the whistling winds call.

With the first frost there is a change,
The tree becomes vulnerable,
The nakedness of its trunk is strange,
But change is inevitable.

My poetry has worn away,
The leaves you wore for protection,
That frost came when you heard me say,
Magic words of my affection.