Would you care to share the white of clouds with me today?
unsullied, grave, immense. Our heartbeats hand in hand,
entwined salacious and intense.
Thoughts unspooled  before  we  learned of  so called sin,
the sky
remembered  innocence
folds it softly,
tucking daylight in.
thanks old friend.
You knocked the bottle over
and I spilled the ashtray again .

You have given us more than we are thankful for
and I for one am glad we are not keeping score.
What grace could wound,
and yet forgive, within?
Rain and my appreciation
where to begin?

In the silver hush where tide and twilight meet ?
I know you there in the breath between the pulse of wave and shore,
a mirror made of dusk, too still,
languorous
sweet,
it asks for nothing, yet  we  ache for more.
A silence hums  in those sweaty heartbeats
wanting  more,
and more and more.
To give it all and take it all
with the ones that we adore.

A stare that cuts like a blade of grass still trembling
after rain,
apology and soft refrain.

Petrichor drunk so green so deep
it stings the watcher’s eyes,
the scent of earth that births both loss and gain,
the world remade in miniature surprise.
We bend to see,
fall as rain
and learn the soul’s disguise.
to a mother we reach for  her
arms outstretched to touche
the skies.

Our moon’s and her pale face
on waters yet unclaimed,
spends itself in silver, bright, obscene.
Each ripple whispers what  isn't named
two heart’s reflections, sharp
diamond
touching
aquamarine
We drown in longing
for what (?)
is never seen.

So moves the spark
through leaf,
through bone,
through whiskey, through  air,
a light that owns us though it wears no face.
To you,  does It speak ?
in color,  now
in shape,
or fleeting care
not love, not truth, but some more sacred trace.
We reach, and vanish, yearning for  grace.
But too often find only the ugliness of the human race.

A simple natural perfection
once gleaned.
A foolish pedestal
unrequited
challenges a heart so pure
once delighted.

The morning
Sinks its bite
Into a lifeless stuffed toy,
Yanking it across the room
For its owner to throw
Me again.

Right here: surface level regrets— a smile rehearsed hides too many
oceans underneath. To lose the mark of a purpose, drowning in
the weight of it, falling asleep too far from tomorrow, and begging
the clock for hours to borrow.

I was almost crushed, a branch torn from its root— still green,
still alive, but already withering in the dirt. Among circles of people,
most days stack like square bricks; I fly too low, chasing reflections,
the heron staring back from water’s despair.

Fresh lipstick still stings— beauty sharpened into a lethal injection.
Kindness can be your only mistake, forcing a straight smile onto a
crooked day. Faith rubs raw against friction; love can be a salvation,
but fatal is it's attraction.

But to stay still, makes a silhouette pinned to the wall, lonely but
lovely in outline— as the shadows above become surface level
regrets. But tomorrow, I’ll trace the same lines again, hoping each
cycle might end better than the last.

I sit on one side of a splintered park bench,
its weathered plaque telling me
Harold Finch loved this spot
before dying.

My finger traces
my watch's sharp cracked crystal.
Scratches layered on scratches,
hard to tell if it's three o'clock or four.

Horns blare,
and sirens wail,
the city pushing through.

An ant scales my shoe-mountain.
This day's Everest.
His tiny legs a blur of purpose,
unaware of the danger that awaits.

Across the path,
a neglected hollow metal general
reigns over his dry, rusty fountain,
pigeons crowning him white.

Gumballs lurk in the lawn,
tiny maces waiting for tender feet.
Once, one got me.
I was seven.
My soda and tears
staining the soil brown.
Mother's embrace saying,
it's okay, it's okay.

Grass offers itself
to all that pass.
Two lovers lie back,
and melt into its willing green.

My foot pins and needles.
I shift against the hard bench.
Everest sits empty.

A lone bee zigzags past my shoulder,
hunting flowers
summer promised
but autumn stole.

Above, a hawk circles,
a black speck drifting
in empty blue.

Below, a squirrel stashes acorns
for a winter it will never see.

And a single red leaf
falls upward
into the blue,
unaware it is dying...

But I see
its shadow dancing.

Cold, bitter winter,
Alone at last, 
until we meet.
Tall and handsome,
Maybe somebody new for the cast.
Smitten, over joyed and excited,
That’s how I felt when we first locked eyes.
In the lighting,  
My heart yearns for something new but fighting the hue
Of the moonlight.
The energy exchange is something I can’t explain.
Metaphysical, spiritual and a little unpredictable.
Hastily destroying all boundaries like a hurricane.
Patience and take your time, but he leans in for a kiss
Our lips graze and and all I feel is bliss
Pulsating heart race and stars in my eyes,
I wish it’d last forever but I know,
You’re not the guy.

ephemeral laurels,
those lullabies of may,
became fungi while i was still asleep;
none preserved for the non-punctual
who dreamt of spring through spring–
another missed migration.

i walk along the ridge alone at noontime,
songbirds seemingly on strike against the straggler–
the prairie warblers so persistent in july
have gone, with august, silent,
nestled against the mountain walls
of cicadas’ seventeen-year symphonies,
those long encores–

i listen but do not hear.

i press my ear to the escarpment
and feel i’m missing something–
like ice ages are whirling still within the cool conglomerate
in spite of summer and sweaty palms,

like the passenger pigeons blurred
and smudged into oneness under the strata
have become,
without my knowing, the stratus clouds above–

or perhaps there is no spite in spindly evergreens
that flower for flowering’s sake;
that wilt to wilt;
that winter with or without listening.