Love Letter #57: Crimson

In dreams of black and white,
he was covered in red,
modestly draped in white,

but the crimson ran through

for me, for you,
for us
and our transgressions.

He must be blue now,
looking down
upon the flight of birds;
the separation, devastation

the killing
of us,

but, the wind cries joy
with no regret;
no shame,

because the son
shone grace
upon every bowed head

each iniquity, falling
at the foot of his cross.




You never bring me flowers
when green fades to brown,
crumbling under my feet,
remnants of a Summer love,

burnt orange
and sad as September



Love Letter #56: to Fireflies

It was one year to the day he left
in the coolness of March.
I waited
for a star to fall like it had that night.
I needed another sign from God
that he was somewhere warm;
somewhere sweeter

than the wildflowers we walked through
in that same field where I sat,

then, came something softer
than a constellation
but, as close as a whisper,
with wings.

My head in my hands,
it all came back;
the song, the lyric
of him;

the smile on the lips of his last words,
echoing like lost syllables in damp air,

but then, this flickering thing,
it multiplied, divided-
like stars,
exploding in the Heavens
and there I was
under a skyful of light

wondering how could I
have ever doubted



Speak her in song
as violins cry softly
uninhibited by note
or measure.

She flies; wings unfurled
without something so trivial
as a name.

She is wind at your neck
that makes you shiver
and you desire to touch her;
keep her like a gem

but she cannot be confined,

so you write her in a poem;
a delicate Sonnet
you can breathe in

like the scent of a book

that you can love
but never own.


Love Letter #55: Rebirth

Sunlight filters in through blue.
I attempt to step out of my shell
as a lonely cardinal plays taps on
the window sill seeking solace in
sounds of worship reverberating
through panes; pangs of a broken
heart bring chorus to an already
red mourning. New seeds bloom
into broken soil to make room for
flowers to replace common weeds.


On Days Without Adjectives

I pinned my dreams
on an old clothesline
like mismatched socks

waiting for the right mate.

Night after night,
it was lonely, except for stars
leaning in to kiss my face
under a waning twilight
and a side-slung moon.

I stayed until dawn,
just to see blossoms
and speak to birds
about how you never listened
to my words,
because they didn’t rhyme

but my lips; my cheeks
are much pinker now
without you.


Love Letter #54: The Hem

I want to be in the midst
of your sweet presence,
scent of flowers lending grace
to the darkness;
your light
unmatched by constellations

as the breeze of you passes,
I desire
for just a brush of your hem
upon the readiness of my skin.