The Fabric of Us

There are gold threads we cannot see
that bind what we wish to forget

wrapped in regret, twisted, flowing,
like limbs in the wind;
like ripples
in a never ending river.

The moon dips and sways,
swings low

brings breezes of change
to unsuspecting constellations

then slips away,
leaving a glimmer of light;
an echo in song

to symbolize our love.

Counting Saturdays

I walked past new daffodils
unfolded toward the sun;
the yellow of past
weighing heavy on my shoulders
counting saturdays and a porch
where honeysuckles fell over us;
red of a cardinal fading in and out
like koolaid summers, regret
and bare feet tickled
by fresh mowed grass
and her shrinking violets.

Physical Graffiti

One swish of the brush
by unseen hands
and the color changes.
There is no gray area
anymore,
just black and white
with a splash of red
after you.

Rose color faded
from the glasses
and images

came
tumbling
down

like houses blocks built;
like castles from sand
after high tide.

My Muse is a Night Owl

In the middle of my walk
through rows of bluebonnets,
poppies unfolding as I pass,
you come;
awaken me,

urgently beckoning my fingers
to do your bidding;

be still my heart, when you call
ruffling my feathers,
gown skirt swirling
because you just won’t wait

You,
whistling synonyms
like a tea kettle
overflowing my cup

with poetry.

Love Letter #101: Covenant

I tape your words under my wing
make reference to your syllables.

In the valley, you bloom
like a never ending poem
with breath;

a drink
of living water.

My petals close around the image of you
and all other thoughts diminish
when your heart is revealed
in wood, nails
and the numbering of stars.

Dry Land

From the valley,
you carry me
to shelter;
cover me
from daggers, falling
like shooting stars
through the heart.

You place flowers
in my hands, as I wait
like a blushing bride;
pick up the pieces
of a shattered perception,
and
love me
in the presence of friend
and foe,
toss worries, bury ache
in a sea of red.

Frozen

Like a record on repeat,
a voice echos;
bounces off walls
and back
to unsuspecting ears.

The needle is getting rusty,
the album, scratched
skipping on words;
the same syllables
week after week,
year after year

moving one step forward,
two steps back.

Fresh Bread

Though we never learned
to dance,
he twirled me;

even thunder
couldn’t dim the day
or quiet the laughter
of hearts, humming,
soft, subtle,
like songbirds,

and when winter comes,
let the snow fall
in-between kisses
like poems
looking for a place to land;
like lines, repeated,

but not lukewarm;
never gray.

Judas

Kiss on the cheek
just before the knife
goes deep.

I saw you in a dream;
heard your name
pronounced differently
in a soft enunciation
of the truth;

syllables disheveled,
with a whole new group
of adjectives to paint

your self portrait.

~