A soft hat makes it considerably easier
to avoid the inevitable purple headache
it's always too warm in the winter here
everyone wears their coat and sweater
but the heat stays on for courtesy

don't let the voice wake you
as often as it wakes everyone
you know it's coming so drown it out
with something sweet in headphones
like Tom Petty or the Nutcracker Suite

sometimes peacefulness surprises you
on your way to Rosedale in the dark
submerged in December outerwear
falling asleep against the cool glass
of the southbound train window.

The sensuous snow layered soft flakes over her long limbs as she reached and raised the deep red cloak from where it had slidden, chiding Nicholas for his haste, while inwardly relishing this moment of personal pleasure in the back of the now spacious sleigh.
"Happy Christmas, dear," she whispered.

Hair flicks in the air
As the drive goes
With lowered down windows.

The air lashes
And the radio blurs
As the only eye sees
What it wants
As the coast glides
as we coast down
This road.

And perhaps
You wanted to take
another way
But we are at the mercy
of the driver,
With the sun in our eyes
and the sea to the left.

But please don't forget,
As you promise you wouldn't.
But the salt makes it hard to stay awake,
and the sun feels so good.
But you're gone as you should.

You clench
Your fingers
Around my heart
And are surprised
When you find them
Covered
In blood

As the air thins you are called to memory
I am as yet
Unsure of what relationship exists
Between the flitting nimbus and velocity
And me
Perhaps the times I fell away from the earth
Skirting through layers of atmosphere
Between the curvature of horizons
And a past sunset far behind me
I left traces of longing In contrails
I left vapour trails of emotion in the sky
Understandably you are filtered from my gravity restricted musings
With feet on Terra Firma; no contrail exists
Only here with vermillion slashing the clouds
Carving a wake through air so fast sounds can’t catch me
Do I remember how I howled

Mourning

Mourning is an eerie thing,
Not always tied to death.
It may celebrate or sing,
May widen eyes or lighten breath,
May bring unexpected things.

Sometimes it is a wayward thief,
That steals among the tombs;
It can alter feelings, and twist beliefs,
Searching for less bitter rooms,
Yet it brings a strange relief.

The heart may not know it,
Nor the mind accept it,
But it may be for the best.
As it guides the sorrowful away from grief,
To a long and healing rest.

I really think if you told your mom
You would be surprised
I hope the surprise is that she’s there for you
And that she finds the right words
Because she’s your mom
And if the surprise is hurtful
Remember the words you told me once
She may be grieving
Not because she is disappointed
But because she didn’t know
Because she doesn’t really know what it all means
Because she couldn’t find the right words at the right time
But more importantly,
Because she was the last to know
Mothers don’t like to be the last to know
We were once the first to see everything
Then we were demoted
Yet we saw more then we got credit for
Now that our children are grown and gone
It’s different
We rely on tidbits, small talk, holiday visits, sibling rumors
Mothers are often the last to know
But no matter what
And no matter how we react
When we are finally told
Or if we are never told
Every secret
Every heartbreak
Every silly encounter
A mother’s love is so strong
Our love is forever
I really think if you told your mom
You would be surprised