The ghosts of the dead give no shade
In this cemetery of stumps.
Elsewhere, the seeds left behind
Sprouted, and the forest lived again.
Not so on Kingston plain,
Where the life of the very soil failed,
Now a field of Bracken fern and lichen.
But, here and there,
An Aspen lifts it's quaking leaves.
In the shade, the lichens yield,
And grass grows again.
"Perhaps in another hundred years",
The ghosts whisper.

Laying in bed today, listening to tunes
          As I so often do
A feeling encroached, one I could not shake
          Or attempt to lose
The sound of sadness, through the microphone
          Blew the dust from my aging bones
Sunlight diffused, into the tomb
          Of my desolate room
Shadows scattered, from their thrones
          To reveal four walls of stone
Flowers dressed, this cold gray place
          Where I woke from rest
Bare and unburdened, my blemished fleshed took its first steps
          Bent but not broken, rebirthed, awoken

It is a quarter past June, and
          already it seems like a record setting summer.
Sprinklers and the scent of chlorine filled pools,
          as I walk in my street-worn shoes to my sanctuary.

The lifeless blacktop park where
          my will and the heat-embracing pavement meet.
A well-manicured backyard tree hangs its verdant leaves
          just over its owner’s fence.
Like a lifeline for life reaching out to me.

I stick and I move,
          as the sweat cleans the dirt and despair from my face.
Like a sunshine superman, I drink UV rays into my bones.
          Alone I feel whole.
The disinfecting flames of summer
          have begun to melt the cold rot encasing my soul.

I lay dormant
Subdued but in whole
I manage my being in stasis
At peace, I am cradled by the light
The long and gentle fingers nestled into the ether
A lengthy slumber is ahead of me
What comfort may it bring?

A wolf in the bushes. A deer in the clearing.
      I know you are looking at me
        because I too am the wolf.

You know I know, because you are me in my knowing.
We are so quiet in our hiding, and yet the deer raises its head.
You sprint to me now.
Here our ever-loving, this sacred tragedy.

O beloved Ever-Creature,
Will you chase me into Godliness, or into the end of It?
I will chase you more–
My precious enemy, again and again.

Divine Ouroboros.

How fragile the leg that snaps, how ****** the neck torn.
You slip and I catch you. I fight and we die together.
The antlers today, the doe eye tomorrow.
Forever this day, no matter the way.

We are the running, the forest, the hooves and fang.
The twig that catches my leg, the corner that traps us.
God is when I **** you.
It is your teeth in my flesh, the tear in the widened eye– my precious thing, and then we do it all again.

A wolf in the bush. A deer in the clearing. You make no sound, but I know where you are. I lift my head and see you. I know you. I know you. I have always known you.

Your passion blooms yellow,
Like the smile of a rising sun.
The wind blows and the daffodils bellow -
They echo a crescendo.
Their spring has begun.

Their song flows across the ground,
Blooming budding emotions in its wake.
The nectar, mixed into the soil mound,
Has enough oxytocin to make a soul ache.

These daffodils grew over the snow in my lawn,
Melting the cold as their roots gripped the earth.
I kept warm among the blossoms as the hours rolled on.
My mind gradually defrosted - like a cerebral rebirth.

My winter has mostly ended, indicated by each perennial.
I have you to thank for planting the first bulb out there -
Double digging the stubborn dirt, yet remaining congenial,
Despite the unfit sod and icy air.

I owe it to you that I've recovered whatsoever:
My cognitive crime scene, solved with your empathetic luminol.
Perhaps young love is a foolish endeavor,
But if that's so, then I'm the most foolish fool of all.

So I'll unabashedly listen to your daffodil crescendo,
And resonate with the joy in your living rhythm.
I'll plant you some chrysanthemums to match in yellow,
So we can sit together with them.