Silent Syllables

There are winds that whisper
leaving willows to sway;
swirling constellations
falling from lucid skies.

There are crystal moments
when raindrops on the window pane
sing softly in chorus
with the tears
that call you to me.

There are mornings that warm the bones;
wildflowers dancing at my feet
swirling skirt, arms outstretched
reaching across rivers and mountains
to that one true love.

There are miracles made
from just a heartbeat
not a syllable to be said,

and then, there is you.



Wet Paint

The ink won’t dry
in the spaces between you

and I.

We are syllables
connected by more than breaths
and borrowed adjectives.

There is something about whispers
under the covers
anticipating traces of fingertips
upon waiting curves

that makes me miss you more.

If words could paint my love
upon a canvas,
mine would be a masterpiece
and the world would see
naked truth;

not colored or cliché’
hiding behind eyes

that may have never seen light.



To Blossom

Baby steps brought me
from peeking through cracks
just to glimpse into a flicker of sun,

to bathing in its warmth;

tasting tenderness from lips
that say “I love you” first
sipping from a shared cup of serenity
so slow

that it fills every crevasse of me
with light.


One Thursday in July

There was peach peeking through slats
of a white picket fence dream,
petals dawning white lace wishes;

steps, in consonance
with aligned constellations

and there was love.

There was a gaze
that wept happiness
browns blending into blues

and there was light
breaking skies apart
windblown chimes playing misty song
as fingers interlocked,
astramaris falling into puddles
where footprints drew closer

painting a perfect path