I Always Hold My Breath In Spring

I love how you humor me;
pick wildflowers in May
when our feathered lashes
should be sleeping in,

wrapped like ribbons
‘round that cherry blossom.

Breezes attempt to stifle play
as we toss adjectives to each other;
alliteration rollin’ off our tongues.

The cardinal swung his tail
painting amore’
into the sunlight of my window
and all I could do was smile

at how the little things
seem so big to me now

and we are so small.



The Vessel

Here you sit- a free spirit
no fear, no chains, no bars
a dream, so close, you can see it
just beyond those glimmering stars.

You wish to make him well pleased
with your talent, create beautiful art;
your voice, like poetry, spilling out joy
through the purity of a humble heart.

Everything changed, the day you met
you shout to the world, your love story
molded, reshaped, set on a shelf
and the potter gets all the glory!



For Nought

In ivory clouds, we saw wings
against a purple painted sky.
Reflected in his eyes,
scattered opalescent stars
and a love
that made me tremble
and look away.

I thought about Robert
and Elizabeth-
how he read her poetry;
fingers turning pages
consoling his sorrow;

his ache
to make her his sonnet-

how she waited
for his letters,
drank in syllables;
sitting pretty
like the birds, perched
against the sycamore tree.



Love Letter #31: promises

They popped out like posies
ripe for the picking;
these words, these words,
congregating with yours
fading into the wallpaper
like paislies dotting your I’s,
crossing t’s with a swirling swoop,
encircling tresses, following
down the length of a robe.
Let me hang on
to the sweet fragrance
of promises, entangled
in the drought of a season.




When blue-gray clouds tremble

      like the atmosphere

         on a windy April day



                         for a place to spill


            like diamond stars

         searching for a garden

of blooming white lilies

      and towering sunflower


                        to break the fall.




I need a push of syllables,
vowels bursting in assonance
shooting up like flowers
lined up in perfect verse.
I hear a voice in the distance
speaking in parables,
liquid gold flailing sun,
dew dripped stars
encircling a sighing half-moon.
If I could only reach the hem
of your flow; the blue gaze
of your tenderness.



Broken Flowers

There was a whole field
of lavender, waiting
when my bare feet tiptoed out,
careful not to slam the screen door,
careful not to cry.

It was kissed all better
at grandma’s
after a cup of hot chocolate
and bedtime prayers
upon grandpa’s lap,
peacefully sleeping;

sugarplums were only secrets
rolled and kneaded into poetry,
softly dancing in my head,

and oh, those wildflowers
did make me smile:

~he loves me, he loves me not~

pure heart,
delicate as those petals,
fingers entwined
in little girl wishes
upon a star

to the one
who always loved me.