Sometimes,
when I finish a poem,
when I’ve polished it,
I see a white light
surrounding it—
not because it’s perfect,
not because it deserves an award,
but because it is mine.

I cry
reading my own words.
Sometimes I feel
it isn’t me writing at all,
but someone else takes the wheel,
gathers my emotions,
seals them in a shell,
lets them ripen,
until a precious pearl
emerges before me.

And that is why I cry.
Because this pearl
is too beautiful,
and it was born
from my own heart.

The Cathedral
Through those stained windows to her soul, you see...
when she begats love, she becomes a panacea.
She leans in deep, and gives him her in silence,
gives him her in her sleep.

She will hold his storms with steady grace,
while she wears his burdens on her face.
Her words are not fleeting,
for she speaks in more than fleeing acts.
And she will wait within his shadows,
light in hand — a quiet force that helps him stand.

Her dreams shift to shape his space to fit his skies.
She sees his truth behind his lies, his cries, his rise.
And though she bends, to give much more than she will ever take,
she breaks not — for she is blended and banded tightly to his soul.

Beaming proudly in his predatory strength because she is his…
A place of worship for his prayers.
His resilient reflection, his revered renewal.
His Cathedral.

Over a steaming cup of soup
over a frosty mug of ale.
Over and over
I've seen those eyes
peer and
peek
and absorb and dart
and deceive.
Over the black and white tattler.
over the child's cartoons.
I've seen those eyes twinkle
and the sides of them
crinkle and the lines
that have grown little by little
like a map of small creeks.
Over a mountain of colorful bills,
over the worn Ulysses
you've
tried
to read
for years.
I've seen your eyes wander and water,
close gently like leaves falling -
zigzag to the ground.
Bang shut fierce, like an old Italian closing the shutters.
Over certificates
and instructions
and declarations.
Over pots of soup
or stews or rice.
I've seen those eyes.
More my eyes than they are yours
as I have loved them a million times
and I have searched for them through seas of faces-
and always light a lighthouse, find them
and through those eyes
a young woman glows.
Not the tired and weary woman I am.
Behind a latte's steam
he sits
and startled he looks up at me.
"You're deep in thought",
he says.

Sahn 12/29/14