One

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
unknowing
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;

unfolding,

wind swirling
into a perfect circle.

~

Like Petals

I.

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.

II.

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.

III.

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

floating

like lost dandelions
in places
that appeared to be

tomorrows
lingering just beyond reach-

scent swirling

close enough

to tickle taste buds

like the same dream
on replay—–unrequited;

love recited
syllables in calligraphy
breathing
in a red shoebox

of memories
blushing; too sad
to read.

Pit

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.

~

Rain Laced Goodbyes

Once, there was admiration
in a suit and tie idea of you
when those sweet contrived
words poured from thirsty lips.
Grandpa always said
observation is the key and
shifty pupils indicate guilt,
but, even then I had a heart
for sob stories laced with rain,
and there you were
placating suspicion;
pleasing syllables soothing dismay.
You learned to hide thoughts
of dark intentions
behind sway of weeping willow dreams
until I awakened,
newly winged and fleeing;
an unwavering constellation
cascading out of sight.

After the Rain

When sun warms damp soil
blades of grass trickle
glistening dew;
yellow petals mirroring day

and nights soaking in stars
like stair steps to glory.

Fireflies in symmetry
with moonlight, flicker
like shades of April
missing Winter,

but not enough
to surrender Spring.

I feel your flowers
lilting heart-shaped hellos
to passing lovers
holding hands,
exchanging glances

just waiting for a reason

to skip May
without a cloud of regret
as a purple sun sets

dropping petals
upon the ivory train

of a blushing June bride.

~

Shaking Your Finger at the Stars

With those first baby steps,

I never looked back,
when you yelled
that I would never make it

alone.

Then began the new me,
or so I thought,
but this me
was always me,
this time, uninhibited-
in control.

I wondered why you looked
at me strange.
You turned so angry;

different,
but so familiar.

I had seen that look before
in the heat of a moment,
but chalked it up to an argument

that was probably my fault;

that curled lip glare haunted me,
but I smiled
because I saw you,

transparent,

in colors
that made me shine.

~

Don’t Make it a Novel

It is 2:00 am again
as I ruffle your covers
and leave you breathing soft
clutching a pillow

as if it were me,

and I,
wrestling with emotions, bluer than that ocean
we drown thoughts in last summer
as I threw a past wrapped in chains
to sink in white waves;
regrets bubbling to the surface
and fizzling out like the nightmares do
when I wake up between you and your whispers
breathing comfort onto trembling ivory skin,

but, even you cannot ease the ache of words
tapping my last nerve to be free.
I left a pen and paper on the nightstand,
but, I cannot write fast enough
or speak syllables as fluently as these keys can
when fingers have muse to dance to.

I mimic the moon so often,
stars flickering twilight
when, really, we can never open that door.
It’s a well kept secret that stays in the dark
on gray cloud days when shadows slip past
rocking boats when the tide is high as those irises
and just as stubborn.

I hear you in the bedroom
with that cute little noise you make
when you turn over and I am missing,

but, I have to fit thirty-one years
into the required fifty words rule
and there is still so much pain to spill.
I wish I could pour my heart out
in one of those three line Haikus
like some who do them so well, and end
with a brilliant summary to sum up
the sum of my life
in a few off-metered syllables,

but, oh, this moon,
this bright glistening thing
brings more sighs
which brings more lines to this piece

and I have this thing about stars
and counting them
especially when they try to hide

and the way that old weeping willow sways
when the wind wisps
tossing my hair just so
like that June day in the park
when we kissed between stanzas
and you broke my concentration
with that look-

the one that still makes me melt
when you kiss me goodbye in the morning,
or walk in on Valentine’s day
with pink roses hidden behind your back,

and now
when I walk in and see your sweet face sleeping
and know the bed is warm

and this poem is over.

~

After the Cold

Upon those curves that meet the sky,
not quite close enough to touch, stars
give glimmer to a not so ordinary night
while fields below catch the whisper of
forgotten lullabies weaving in and out
of firefly wings and buttercups on the
way to softer places where wind gives
birth to a kinder breeze of ~feathers~ ;
every petal feeling the tickle of Spring.

~