If I could send syllables to your doorstep
like rose petal kisses to comfort you,
would you wait for me?

If months spilled like days
and hours into seconds,
could you squeeze your pillow
as if it was me
or cross bridges
under the same unwavering moon

dancing shadows into light
and us into one?



It’s That Time of Year

My dearest Eloy,

This letter started with the ending, because it is easier
to cry over a falling star, than to envision that smile
and those white roses from your garden, into my hands,
just because.

Who would have thought this Texas girl
could be a princess, with everything but a crown,
in your eyes?

On a walk this morning, lemon daffodils danced in the sun
and something about the way the wind played in my hair
whispered Spring. It was always our favorite season, even now.

It is three days until March 31st: twenty years since the angels
took your hand, and half of my heart.

It ‘s midnight and the sound of these trains, weeping
takes my mind back, but, this time, there is no waiting
for a late night phone call- just silence.

These fingers still tremble the letters of your name,
each, softly beating, like your heart when you said goodbye.



the Unfolding of Miracles

Some flicker of imagination
created my heart
one sunny day when the wind
played without caution

swirling semi circles
around silhouettes
and beauty
took it’s own interpretation

of love,
in April,

but, trees changed colors
and breezes whipped leaves away
leaving me flowerless
of the vacancy
to follow

This heart, this heart
upon my sleeve
chasing the same winds
that I blossomed from,

and she
would bloom and flutter away

into such charming air,
but unable to breathe,
beautiful and starless,

buds flourishing,

but, this time,
in a guiding light
warm and plentiful;

three miracles
holding hands

with two

looking into eyes
that hold tomorrow
breaking every cycle
before them;


wind swirling
into a perfect circle.



Like Petals


Twirl of clouds sprinkle passion
upon not so innocent bystanders
seeking Paris nights under a Texas sky.
These sidewalks shake with clickety-click
of heels and sway of lace skirts lacking love
as suits without names stir romantic thoughts
and heads turn counter – clockwise and back;
reciting two cents of the unwanted kind.
Late night smoke rings form golden bands;
a gentle reminder of seasons passed
moons ago when singing sun made light
of every frivolous worry upon clotheslines
on daunting Mondays within a May breeze.
Swing, swing from the ordinary thoughts
when the walls close in and excuses rust
like the spaces between us.


Carry that torch to the ocean-
put it out in the waves and unwritten sand
of so many lovers with letters washed away.
Dreams are more than metaphor
to broken spirits hanging on by thread;
treading water while fright, like mountains,
towers. Fear is only a tremble; hands
reaching for something, someone to calm
the rage with a touch so gentle
that even the earth is moved.
Carry her to a place of alliteration
where stars commence in dance, falling
like clandestine moments melting too soon.
Take breaths between those whispers
that press petals in her palm like pages
of a book of psalms with silver edges.


Whoever said gray is not a color
never paused to consider
the law of attraction, looking up
from a perfect field of daffodils
to paint a purple landscape,
blank and interrupted, counting
firefly hellos over conversations of whys
tweaking twilight until it all fades to black;
like lyricists pouring music from a coffee pot
on many a 3:00 am sleepless morning
when poetic notions marry off pronouns
to prospective stanzas with sleek syllables
and all the right adjectives to woo
a helpless heart that just cannot resist
the vulnerability of a third vignette.



Hypnotic Poison

It was difficult to differentiate
between her and the flowers
she lie in;
wore in her hair

that day in the park
when it was cloudy,

but, feelings weren’t.

Verses played ping pong
with adjectives;
forgetting to exhale s
cents of spring-
grass tickling
the silk of her skin;

giggles, stirring emotion
one last time

before darkness
diminished the resemblance
of her sway,
the twirl of her tresses

and the willow, just before dusk.



Red Shoe Box

Red Shoe Box

Van Gogh’s brush
could not have created
a more glowing morning
in May,

cashmere-soft whispers


like lost dandelions
in places
that appeared to be

lingering just beyond reach-

scent swirling

close enough

to tickle taste buds

like the same dream
on replay—–unrequited;

love recited
syllables in calligraphy
in a red shoebox

of memories
blushing; too sad
to read.



He backed up his ego
with a black leather book
ancient and translated
in beautiful language

exploring the power
of one species

over another

trees sway with her skirt,
anchor on an ankle
and breeze carrying scent
of perfume
(he calls a weapon)

because of his own weakness
and her strength.

—If he were to trade
his load for hers
he would fall

into a pit of fire
of his own making.