"winshield" poems
I see leaves from trees, winter wind just a blowing,
making an assualt like paratroopers on folks lawns.
I hear the geese gather up and form their formations,
quaking loudly that they are up and gone.
Morning rush to the work has to be coordinated,
that old truck needs time to warm up.
frost on the winshield, wind just a blowing,
time for one more coffee warm up.
Evening breeze brings the smell of wood stoves going,
holiday baking and burning leaves from the yards.
Yes I do believe ... Winter is here!
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 2:03 PM UTC
We have sand behind us,
memories of sand and of the sun but also the cold, and there is a lot of grass and warmth and so many breezes, through trees, over rivers, and in through sun roofs and car windows,
and sometimes I think that all I am made up of is us,
my skin is not my skin but blades of grass under our backs and between our toes, I am only mud and cracking twigs and the way the river smells driving across the levee after it rains,
and sometimes when I look at myself my eyes are not my eyes
at all,
they are the sun reflecting off the ocean, or the blue sky over the trees,
over everywhere we have been together or will ever be apart.
And my freckles are flecks of sand on our skin, and if I let them become it, the streets that I walk down become shady alleys covered in ivy or uneven sidewalks along the beach.
So often
I can suddenly feel gravel underneath my feet, or I am stepping lightly over asphalt too hot under my toes.
When I let myself go
all I can feel is what has been with you, the
dew on the lawn in the morning and the rain on your winshield, the sun on our faces in the summer,
my skin, your skin, our eyes
blend together into an overwhelming expanse of sky,
your fingertips are on my eyelashes and the muscles in our shoulders are the same,
and all we are, all I will ever be,
is everything I have been with you.
Apr 13, 2011
Apr 13, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC