There’s always room for dessert—
Pie and eggnog ice cream,
Balanced on separate plates,
We eat in alternating bites,
Sweet rhythms of shared delight.

Later, we’d wander the market—
Ginger, turnips, parsnips,
Heads of lettuce cradled in arms.
The peaches were translucent,
Like little suns behind a veil.

Rachael and I would lock the door,
Retreat to my room,
Our feast a secret ritual
Near summer’s fading edge.

I was fifteen pounds thinner then,
Very chic, I thought—
A shadow of myself,
But glowing with iced melon
Eaten quietly in the tea-room at work.

Paris—ah, Paris—
Was everything I’d dreamt.
I stood on the hotel balcony,
Hot chocolate in one hand,
A chocolate croissant in the other.

We were hungry, and
Everything was for me.
It was a fine moment.
A moment that tasted
Like more.

Barely seen by the human eye,
Oats, beans, and tomatoes lie—
Buried deep by patient hands,
Beneath the soil of fertile lands.

From silence springs a mighty oak,
A hundred years in leaves
The root of steam and spinning steel—
Seeds turned the gears of the industrial wheel.

Morning bagels, cotton threads,
Blankets, harvest, daily breads—
They stage the greatest show on Earth,
Of silent power, quiet birth.

What wisdom do they hold within,
To rise again, to grow, to win?
They travel far, they stand their ground,
In wind and wave, they still are found.

They guard, endure, and reunite,
With every dawn, they seek the light.
Across the fields, across the seas,
They whisper dreams upon the breeze.

Six hundred seeds in rows aligned,
Each with a legacy, each designed.
Given water, sun, and space,
They bloom in forms no eye can trace—

In colours bold, in shapes unknown,
Each seed becomes a world its own.
Holding hope in fragile shells,
A future that the earth foretells.

Fruits, seeds, and blooms,
Bare feet pressing into soft, mossy ground—
A green light spills like a carpet
Across an island hushed in surreal quiet.
Water glides over stones,
Each rock alive with shadow and shine.
I lift my gaze to the endless blue above,
Where even the edge of a leaf feels extraordinary.
Earth, sand, and pine needles press into my soles.
Can you hear the echo?
These hands can shift the earth—
But it will never be enough for you.
We are animals stealing from the sky.
Even the smallest insect leaves its trace.
The landscape shifts around me,
Yet the path—worn and winding—remains.

You gather stars from the night sky,

one by one, 
as if their light could fill the silence in me —
but even galaxies fall short.
Don’t hold my words too tightly.

I gambled on something fragile,

hoped the weight of chance 
might land in love.
I want this to stay.

To linger in the space 
where laughter once came easy.

Now, every breath feels heavier,
 but I face the shadows head-on.
These hands —
they could cradle more than constellations, 
lift the weight of dreams.

But even towers laced in gold

feel hollow
 when you look right through me.
I take it all in the ache, the beauty, the stillness —
and yet,

I remain
 less than what you seek

I wandered slow, the sky turned grey,
And aching words I longed to say.
Oh no! Each voice, each weary face—
A mark of sorrow, lost in place.

My mind could hear a distant cry,
A whisper soft, a heavy sigh.
It trickled down the shower wall,
A trembling echo in the hall.

Proclaim thy voice, let silence break!
Fly far from all the hearts that ache.
Away! Away! through bark and stone,
Through mossy paths where dreams have grown.

Yet still today, the light shines clear—
Because you came, because you're near.
And though the past may softly weep,
Its tears now lull my soul to sleep.

A white-hued pig upon the surface
Of this venerable institution—
Exhausted by a deluge of thought,
A writer sits, shackled and bound.
My summer shade shall never fade,
Mourn me not when I am gone.
So long as breath resides in me,
Let not my treasures be undone.
As tender as a budding flower,
Unshaken by the storm's harsh cry,
Your beauty, mirrored, shall not wane—
More lovely still, when eye meets eye.
Too fierce the sun in heaven’s gaze,
Yet grants you life without a name.
Your worth uncertain, yet profound,
Death shall not boast its fleeting claim.
The golden law, both sweet and just—
Shall I compare myself to thee?
If this be folly, or end-time’s edge,
Let love’s truth live eternally.