Recital

When I stumble, he picks me up;
kisses my forehead, like a gentleman,
spins me graceful; the potter
perfecting his latest creation.

When others critique every step,
he overlooks the flaws, applauds

like any good father would.

~

After the Storm

A stone’s throw away,
I hear the whispers,
the exaggerated utterances
that rain upon parades
filling gutters with excess,

but contrary to speculation,
the canopy is in tact;

a covering of love,
opens wide
like an umbrella.

Love Letter #102: Deja Vu

Sitting in the shade,
I felt so small
with only the sun to shine a light
upon my hiding place;
my shelter from the world.

Notebook in hand, I escaped
through imagery not my own,
into quiet places
where flowers bloomed gold
and violet under bare feet.

Years later, as light shifted,
I returned to your limbs,
your leaves spread across the sky
It was deja vu,
Comment allez-vous?

We left our initials there
between parentheses;
our poem under a rock
thirteen years passed
this June.

Calligraphy

i.
In the wee hours, she awakens me
with syllables, whispered
to sleepy eyes
falling upon pages, upon hearts;
swollen adjectives,
burst into sentences
of consonants and vowels
blooming into calligraphy.

ii.

The red of a cardinal
sends reflection of a book
tattered, pages folded
on significant chapters,
numbers, colons, numbers
embedded in my heart,
a manual for living
and dying well; a nest
of open-mouthed babes
seeking comfort in your bosom.

iii.

He loved me like Spring,
held me with arms swaying
like a breezy willow
on daffodil mornings
yellow as sun;
evenings, purple, cascading
like the stars we gazed upon,
tumbleweeds looking on
in a desert of jealous stars,
each one, birthing a poem.

Uprooted

The boards once lined up, level,
the floor, solid; steps, straight,
every stone in the flowerbed,
perfectly spaced,

bordered by upcoming violets,

then the foundation shifted,
faith shaken, faces turned
flowers separated

– from the weeds.

Beneath the rubble,
a few blossoms remain intact
tender succulents, flawed
but, still blooming,

in love,
form the perfect bouquet.

When May Brings More Than Flowers

It didn’t know it was your melody
that cardinal sang at my window,
flowing out in notes of orange,
shimmering,
sunny as summer;
didn’t hear your voice in the wind,

but you were always in my heart;
that piece of me that was missing,
now found, in smiles, in laughter
filling up empty places
with love.

The View

There is nothing to see here
scaling the building for a glimpse
of these humble goings on.

Simply read between the lines
as you tread softly, on tiptoes
leaving a faint scent of regret
and an ocean of longing

between the pages

finding reality
in lines of red ink.

Third Row

The sway of petals in the window sill
cast a dancing shadow upon the wall;
an echo of a song
we never knew the lyrics to,
the chill of a memory

now viewed from balcony seats;
voices faint now, but we finally hear

louder than we ever did.

~

When Winter Feels Like Spring

Clouds hang low, ivory with puffs of smoke,
like Monday morning with notes of the blues,
until that glimmer of gold peeks through cracks;
lands just so, catching his brown eyes, beaming
(like they do when he hides pink roses
behind his back on Valentine’s day.)
Some onlookers tend to critique the garden,
count the weeds between rows of perennials,
focus on flowers not quite as agile as before
but we bloom love; the scent, still just as sweet.

A Musing

It awakens her
with whispers of flattery,
kisses her lids open,
pushes all the right buttons
only to breeze out syllables
from 2:00 a.m. lips

that just want to dream
a fraction longer;

a spooning silhouette
pulled away
from the warmth
of her sleeping companion.

Syllables, like new buds
flourish, blossom;

petals strewn-
leaving a trail of poetry
for lovers to follow.

Oh, but the dark seeps in
under clandestine constellations
and a waning moon;
tears through parchment paper,
smears her calligraphy-

dims her light
with negative connotations
and irreconcilable adjectives.

Just Your Type

There is no justification
for opening that door
again,
but you swing wide
just as quickly as you closed it
in my face,
once,
or twice.

Misery loves company
and bloodshot eyes
need drops to revive;
a transfusion of love
to keep your heart
fluttering,

but, I am the only
matching donor

and I’m drained.