Even

Even the light

Is different

Testing the dura

Of oxygen

Without you

Even thirst

Has no desire

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Stranger

Stranger

Has eight letters, two vowels, six consonants

Can be chopped to negative connotation, or extended to romantic suggestion

Strange people can find each other and feel …

Less estranged

Strangeness can become, familiar

Like the day before a storm brings the brightest day

There are angels walking among us

They may have sagging skin and loose jowels

Dirty fingernails and missing teeth

But their smile is a beacon, guiding lost ships to harbor

Only today I met one as I held the post office door open

She said “this will be your year” and her warmth was a well tended fire in my heart

We marry strangers who have become loved ones

Strange is stronger than blood

You have never been a stranger to me, the day I met you I forsaw

Us walking beneath wet trees, the deer, sillouetted between bare branches

Our wet gloves smashed together

Holding tighter

Than the fierce grip of Winter

A summation of a little life


The soul of solace

Always surprised

As if some spectator diety laughed at the absurdity of prediction 

For mortal souls

Never expected … solace often follows despair

Down a well beaten path

Where all colorful leaves have fallen and turned grey underfoot

She is the red cardinal, flickering like an lacquered fan opening, starkly bright against bleak winter sky

She is the tucked warmth of your bed, greeting weary limbs, needful of respite

A silver section of moonlight, glimpsing like thin nyaad at frosted window

She is the irregular beat of your memory, draining thoughts to drip wet til dry

A summation of a little life

Like a letter from an old friend, coming just when, you’d given up believing in serendipity

Yet she is there, watchful in the eves, of your blunders and taut anxiety

It is in the harmony of reconciliation, laying palm over palm, folding away pain, putting our best clothes on, even as we feel frozen

Walking through ice, glittering from dark branches and exposed tufts of miseltow

A tree filled with scarlet berries, feasted upon by tired ravens, huddled as one

The slow plume of smoke, a tang of burning wood and wet wool

Somewhere, something tries to survive

And pulling together like floundered ship, we tilt wildly and lurch against current

Holding on tightly, the ache in ourselves

Reminder that it is far from over

It may be sometimes grief steals our faith

And then, doorbell rings, a little light climbs in India ink sky

Some discovered solace, salve to thirsting soul, clamboring over emptiness and filling chill with hope

The worm

Why have you never been happy? Asked the caterpillar

I do not know, said the worm

For I have tried, to find meaning in wriggling through mud

Surely I have put effort into higher purpose 

Yet it eludes me for certain

And the caterpillar

Understood

For he would soon transfer his frustration

Into colored flight

Becoming even if for a short while

A thing of polination and cast of beauty

Surely people wept when his life, so short, would end

And still they taunt the worm though it cleanses the earth

For we are kinder to beauty than usefulness

And our lot is hard to fathom

From a ninety degree turn

Walking as we do, on top of the worm

Sun


Thank you for loving me.

When my plait is full of burrs and

Stooping in pain, I resemble a wild thing, lost in herself

Thank you for loving me.

As night awakens terror’s and we bide our time in a pea boat, bobbing fitfully in green ditch

It is said 

You cannot love, if you do not first love yourself

That is false

It was you

Believing in me, staying long past easy

Helped to quench 

The natural tendecy to sell myself short

I hadn’t the heart for self love

It had healed badly without plaster cast

And would pain me when

The weather became cold

So I relocated

To a hot climate

But the ache followed 

Mindful of our tendency 

To repeat ourselves

Even in forgiving sun

Of Being


In the lowing keep

When shelter becomes more than solidity

Something bright in darkness

Warmth when cold

In the clasp of your arms

Timbered voice, felling fear

All around us animals stir, unseen 

The switch of their fur, and meadow smell

As if time had laced herself backwards

We drift beneath spells

Your mercy is a red fruit at my throat

Throbbing against the thin trickle of hope

My eyes are dim in this evening

Where shadows appear to turn light footed 

Swaying in our attachment to the finite

When all around, creatures cease without word

And new are born to cover the empiness before she knew herself lost

We have no prescribed place, or capture

It is as if nothing has roots and like the tumbleweed

Rolling beneath the smoky clouds with hushed song

Lets go of all that can harm, the vast solemnity 

Of being

Interpretation of sound

Your voice

Is a nest of time

First learning behind words

Their velvet center

Taking us both back to

Before I had language, listening to your

Interpretation of sound

I am the shell, come from the whorl of your ear

Talking to ourselves in drowsy pattern

We stitch close, layers forming billowing sails

As if all the world were a silken dream

And the smooth gust presses us into 

Everlasting attachment