The morning mist moves stealthily through the forest glen
Bringing moisture to every den
The doe and her fawn huddle close to preserve their zen
Hidden far from the world of men

The hunter arises early with eager anticipation
An age-old tradition of human predation
A memory of youthful vacation
Past bonding of a father-son relation

What will happen this fine spring day
Will paths cross in the misty grey
Will tragedy and victory combine in some fateful way
In which direction will fortunes sway

In the silent setting, a shot rang out
The father was late with his warning shout
There was no antler above the gentle snout
Thank god, his son missed in his initial bout

This was not the hunter’s dream
Not the experience he wanted to share
It was so close to be an anguished scream
The hunter muttered a silent prayer

for sure
haute couture
but soup du jour?

am I slipping off the shelf
is it the end of self

"Later"

Our love is losing its gripping,
like acrobats whose hands are slipping.
We pay too little attention
to each other’s intention.
We ignore the shading
and are too quickly abrading.

What started this downward turn?
Was it a careless spurn?
Was it an angry moment
that began the foment?

What started with loving laughter,
even through the mornings after,
has become at times judgmental,
or what’s worse, inconsequential.

I feel I’m spinning into a cosmic shift,
tumbling freefall from your world, adrift.
Are you pulling from me or am I letting go?
All I know is that it hurts me so.

your love awoke me like morning
silently quietly persistently

it slowly warmed me
from head to toe, to and fro

it pushed me into day
from a reluctant night

it brought me sight
gently into light

you have birthed my joy