I'm not a poet
Don't speak the language

Death follows (a lantern-lit, moss-draped carriage)
Offers me a ride (so kind)
But it's not my time (for—for;
give me,
get me)

I'm not a tortured soul
Just trying to be understood

Please? Won't someone save me?
(Where—
oh
where—
am... I?)

I'm just writing on this journey to the end

Snowflakes fall, a silent lullaby,
Blankets of white beneath twilight sky,
Bare branches etched in frost’s sigh,
Cold winds weave through the night,
Stars alight, crisp and bright,
Warm fireside light,
Frozen plight,
Deep night,
Still.

Many days have passed since I wrote something good
Maybe that's a sign of my inner world quieting down
Maybe in silence poetry has no place
When the wounds stop hurting and the heart stops weeping
There is nothing left to write about
Or at least not with the same urgency
No words that boil to be written
No feelings eating you alive
Just life filling your cup
Significant small things
Meaningful acts
Deep conversations
Home cooked meals
And cozy blankets
Have given me more peace
Than you ever could

dark hair, darker nights
the winter solstice draws us
together again

A leaf
In the gentle autumn breeze
Softly falls to Earth,
Together with its siblings
It lines the woodland path.

The ground below is cold but soft,
Still sensing the September sun,
Not yet has winter’s icy breath
Been felt, not yet its reign begun.

The creatures of the forest
Patter to and fro,
Their feet and wings stirring the leaves
On the ground below.

By comes a fox, takes careful watch,
Then vanishes from sight,
By comes a robin, plucking berries
And then, once more, takes flight,
By comes a squirrel, in its search
For nuts it takes delight,
And finally, by comes the owl,
Waiting for the cloak of night.

The leaf, still lying on the ground,
Is eager for another day
But then, by comes a gust of wind
And carries it away.