The world, a canvas of alabaster, stretches forth,
unblemished, save for whispers of last night's snow,
a pristine expanse beneath the pre-dawn hush.
From our haven, a cabin snug, a haven built of love,
we watch the firmament begin its slow reveal.

A blush of rose, crepuscular and faint, begins to stain
the eastern sky, a promise whispered on the breeze.
The tundra, hushed and still, absorbs the nascent light,
each crystalline flake a prism, catching hues unseen,
reflecting back a spectrum, ethereal and bright.

Then, vermilion streaks the horizon's edge,
a fiery kiss upon the sleeping land.
The world awakens, slowly, stretching limbs of light,
as shadows shrink and melt beneath the sun's ascent.
And in this shared awakening, our hearts entwine anew.

Cerulean hues then paint the heavens high,
a backdrop for the drama of the rising sun.
The world is bathed in gold, a transient, fleeting grace,
as day ascends, its vibrant reign begun.
We watch, content, our love a constant in this change.

The apricot and peach now blend and swirl,
a symphony of color, played across the snow.
The tundra breathes a sigh, releasing winter's chill,
as life stirs gently, putting on its show.
And in this moment, timeless, our love feels ever strong.

Secure within this haven, built of trust and care,
we face the day, whatever it may bring.
For in each other's eyes, we find a love so deep,
a bond that strengthens as the wild birds sing.
And as the sun climbs higher, our hearts find perfect peace.

A misty morning,
Beckons the sun.

Wavy rain clouds,
Up in the sky.

Another watercolor sunrise,
Drifting in your eyes.

Eyelids heavy on the I-30,
You kissed my hand and told me you loved me.
Not a soul on the road, just you, me and Biggie,
Looking at the sunrise you said, “Isn’t she pretty?”

A new morning,
At the death of an old week.
Skeleton trees reach their bony arms,
Into the sea of rose gold clouds above.

Faint chimney smoke,
From a distant home.
A family who wakes,
And won't see the sky,
In the same way I do.

They will return to their beds,
In the soft clutch of tonight.
And won't stare out the window,
Into the twilight curl,
Of star branches weaved.

Sinking into your shadow – a stranger in this place. As the ink
smudged upon your lips; leaves your voice spellbound, those words
caught in a storm within your throat. These torrent of emotions
surging in my heart, resembles rain drumming upon the pavement –
frigid as a stone adrift in the river's relentless current; it ****** my
skin like a thorn.  

Yet, the flicker of our love's promise remains, a distant glimmer,
a beacon in the vast expanse of night.

The sun was still cold in your breath,
half-awake still dreaming and we are way past that hour,
just waiting for the first light to break in and steal the dark away like a stereo.

The air was fetid,
reeking of sad news,
swirling about,
but we moseyed along carrying dustpans and brooms,
lugging garbage bags
like we were sanitation Santa,  sweeping cigarette butts,
and in them I saw burnt time,
and in them I see mounting bills.
The cold air was doing a number
on us, dumping its oblique
sorrow on our then ragged frame
as we emptied waste baskets.

At times when I utter the word doctor,
your eyes go creamy,
your ears wag,
perhaps I was doing an impression—
an echo
of a forgotten life.
People were still groggy on their cardboard beds, their lips wearing soot as they drooped down on the side of their faces, the night weighed heavy on them.
Unlike most sight that slide through and veer away from despair in the flesh, yours fell on them with flecks of your heart knowing that from them we are dimes apart.
We swept, but your broom was nimble, springing into life in those days. Out of nowhere your hope swung a fist. I always remembered those words like a promise and held on to them like a limb.
“Though the world may forget, don’t dare forget who you are.”