Welcome Sign

Driving through the desert,
I take blurry pictures of cacti,
find faces in clouds,
anticipating red rock formations
and an abrupt change of atmosphere
when we pass that welcome sign
that I can never capture on camera

just beyond the second roundabout
where our lives took a dramatic turn
two years before.

Despite two flights
and a long drive
from a ninety degree Phoenix
with a broken air conditioner,
and growling stomachs,

all we can do
is breathe it all in;
this place, this air,
this energy

this return to sacred ground

where horizontal and vertical
come together
in multi-colored stones

to form a cross.

Messenger

I hear a voice
counting sheep for me
and patting my head

when it falls.

When the rain is too hard
to stand under,
he is my umbrella;
my shelter in the storm.

I see the sun breaking
through lace curtains;
the same light that led the way
when my feet were dragging

and the weight on my shoulders
was almost too much to bear.

When I speak,
unaware of the direction
my words may take,
I know he is holding my hand,
bringing ideas to fruition.

I only thought I was the poet.

Synopsis

June 23rd

Don’t you hate it when you hear that song;
the one that makes you reach out
when you never thought you would?

I left my heart in a linkedin message-
(that is the only way I knew how to reach him,)
Dear Dad,
never expecting to receive a response,

but, I did.

It was straight forward,
to the point:

“Thank you for getting in touch.
I am so glad to hear that you are happy in
your life, but,”

(that resounding word, ) “but..

I would rather not begin to get involved
after all these years.
I hope you understand.”
and it was signed simply:
“Love always.”

I wondered,
where was the love in that letter?

I could have crawled back
into my safe cocoon,
into that introverted little girl;
that want-to-be poet
that always wanted a daddy,

but, I had already blossomed.

~

Love Letter #48: Unnatural

I roll over,
but he moves closer,
his fingers finding the softness
of cheeks;
the fondness in a gaze;

my feelings,
without even looking,

like the way he seeks me
in dreams
on a white horse, rides in,
his voice awakening me
at just the right moment;
with gentle kisses
on the forehead

to hush the fear;
to soften the blow.

It has been said that our closeness
is unnatural,
like how his hand feels empty
without mine inside it
and how I still cry,
surprised by the pink roses
behind his back
on Valentine’s day.

They don’t understand
that it isn’t the fluff;
the perfect pink petals,
or the romantic gesture,
but the sweet look on his face
that I am still so in love with.

Speak

 Lips nibble the end of a pen

    as thoughts swirl

              like acrobats

       so close to the edge.

I can feel the tension

                building;

            fingers trembling

                          to tell a tale

      like the ebb and flow of waves,

            like the static between us;

the fine gold thread

     connecting each individual

       to another source of light;

                                of love.

Be my intercessor,

                my bridge

     to the constellations

             your words,

          beckoning my voice

  to spill truth

      softly,

one syllable at a time.

 

Morning Glory

Let Saturday spill through my window;
silhouette of daffodils reflecting yellow
through the shutters as I turn over
and his hand is missing from mine,

but the scent on his pillow remains,
leaving me inhaling the presence
of love and last night’s conversation.

We hesitate to let morning come,
but, oh, how the sun lends light to life;
the red glimmer from a cardinal
taps a love song upon the stained glass;
butterflies chasing daisies, swaying
even in the absence of an august breeze.

At six o’clock A.M., silence hums
and a far away melody strums
to my heart, soft, like his blessings;
like the words we whisper
when no one else is listening.

~

Love Letter #47: Yellow Butterflies

I remember counting stars when I was small and then, suddenly, I was all grown up, watching one fall (the night you died,) but it seemed like a thousand came crashing down into the center of my heart.

Just when I began to doubt love, it blew in carrying me to a mountaintop where he knelt with a ring and a question that led me here, seven years later watching him sleep; stroking his hair in my 2:00 am insomnia.

You would have loved him; the way he smiles when I talk about you for hours in a rented RV on our anniversary as my tears spill on his shoulder. He makes me laugh until my stomach hurts; until I forget why I was crying, how my eyes light up when he walks in the door and how he holds my hand, even when we are sleeping.

You would hate it here today; the pause of trees, the frightened hum of nature bowing to the unknown and the faint twinkle of stars amidst an unstable moon, the earth trembling under bare feet as flowers sway in the weep of disturbing winds,

but, in the summer, yellow butterflies follow my every step and a sky full of fireflies reminds me that you still bring the light.

~for Eloy. I miss you

Déjà vu

Your name was on my lips
before I knew your eyes
and the way they melt into mine,

so that I must turn away,
blushing,
pink as the roses
hiding behind your back,

soft, like your heart.

We began this language of ours
with two notebooks behind a tree
exchanging syllables and glances

connecting the dots

between stars
and a jealous June moon

wondering why the deja vu’
beneath a weeping willow
and how our hands
seemed to have held before;
mine gently wrapped into yours,

belonging,

like words
inside a poem.

~

Love Letter #46: Secret Chord

Footsteps echo the dance
of a harpist’s chords;
psalms falling like secret stars
as yesterday’s rusted tears
sculpt this silhouette;
soften this heart
into a puddle of adoration

swirling like pretty poetry
bowed at your feet.

I thought love was an arrow;
a pain that stole last breaths,
but, oh, the realization of you!;

a light that illuminates
from one beautiful name
dropping me to my knees,
one voice that whispers
through my right hand,
spreading an infectious love

in syllables of solace-
this pen, leaking red;

your words in my mouth.