Love Letter #27: Little Sticky Notes

Tulips open and close as you pass,
because even they know gentle
when they see it.

Until you,

I never knew how to bring the wind
to a whisper and look at stars
through keyholes to savor the light;
the delight of alliteration willows bring
when wind encircles their limbs
lifting like skirts,
leaving green song of weeping.

After this winter, let’s wish for early spring
so we will never have another morning
without daffodils tickling us awake
and cardinals peeking through
blue bedroom curtains
leaving song in our heads

like the little sticky notes
I leave in your briefcase
so you will miss me more

than the last syllable
of your favorite poem.


Discontinued Pattern

Some nights, I sit back and wonder
If I am doing all of this just to prove you wrong:

waking up at 2 and 3:00am
to jot down thoughts,
roll adjectives off the tongue of my pronouns,

create symmetry between the lines
of these rumpled love letters;

an alliteration of slender syllables.

Would it ever be good enough
for your discriminative eye,
or would I be that one cup with a crack-
and the handle missing
in your cabinet of fine china?



If Words Were Wildflowers

Let dreams be wildflowers
under our feet
The gold strands
that extend
from me to you,

periwinkles tossed between our feet
and fallen petals upon pages.

I want to be his Wednesday;
the gentle pause in his week,
the 2:00 a.m. thoughts
that interrupt his sleep.

This cardinal, tapping on the window
playing violins to my heart.
Spring makes me think of Emily
and daffodils;

second chances on a brand new April day.



Throw Back

Pass her the tip jar,
to put in two cents
as if anyone listens to a long-winded poet
who dreams in alliteration
while notes play their way into pillowcases;
pieces of mind falling by the waste side,
because no one gazes at stars anymore
or jealous moons without an agenda.
The only picture she kept
from last summer’s vacation
was the unshaven guy on the corner
singing his heart out to an ex life
beside an open mandolin case.



Love Letter #26: Missing Sedona


I will get back there
stepping over baggage
and red rocks

because a piece of me
was left in the pebbles
washed over by streams
and kindred voices of birds;
their lullabies, weeping

to me,
to mine.

At the very sight of you, Sedona
we ached,
like initials in an oak tree
we had never seen;
never carved into-
a wind wisped through his spirit,
then mine,

whispering secrets, revealing notes
we had heard a thousand times,
but never listened to.

Wings fell over my lashes
and the past went to sleep;
blew away in red dust
and starlight’s shimmer.

I awakened with an army behind me,
the sweet sound of harp strings
between my fingers,
and he, a pan flute,
in a state of melodic harmony
only angels could have orchestrated .

Oh, the skies there are smiling gold
with blue-gray tears calling me back,
loving me with winds of remembrance
haunting me in winter,
leaving me seeking that same air;
yearning from every corridor,
at sunrise and sunset
even my Texas sky full of stars
cannot subdue.

I will see you again, in Summer
touch your hills and harp
with trembling fingers,
take back my pebbles from your stream
and leave you my jeweled love
stacked in rock towers
with trembling fingers.

Until then,
I send you love letters;
poetry in bated breath,
from here

to the other half of my heart.



This Book Won’t Write Itself

I was content with the table of contents,
but I backspaced through two chapters
before midnight on New Year’s eve.

I wanted a fresh perspective,

so, I scratched the title,
took the flowery adjectives
out of my preface,
and danced right through
to the ending.

I never did have much patience
for procrastination.



Ninety-Nine Words

The clouds were a smoky gray;
black birds swirling in an arch
‘round a shrouded sun.

There were not enough syllables
to spell out the intensity-
the rapturous love ascending
wrapped across wooden planks
and released like doves;
a book in untainted air
on weeping willow Sundays,

but, now we see the falling away;
the cuddling masses birthing idols,
taming wonders
with coincidence,
logical explanations,

and a bed of roses
without thorns.

I can see the light from here;
his doting eyes turning the page
to another January,

releasing a thousand fireflies
with the hope of a single spark.