Branches

Just another day in June,
under an oak tree,
I could see tomorrow
in your eyes;
feel surrender in my chest-

each breath
anticipating our next chapter,
words running together,
escaping interpretation,
so lost in sentiment.

I missed the metaphor of the river
running behind us, swift, winding,
but never ending,
like our love,

and that towering oak
was him all along.

In the Midst of Us

There were fireworks,
stars in the eyes
and butterflies,
roses, hidden
behind his back,

but, still
something missing;
a passion
the two
could not ignite.

Love was incomplete

without its author
in the middle.

A Pseudonym of 2020

I feel like waking up
from this eight month dream
which began with fireworks
that never ended

yet.

Scrolling past faces,
unfamiliar; my muse
taking a virtual hike
in this quarantine mentality,
eyes taking in reality,
negativity, irrationality

sleeping with one eye open
and the other, squinting,
dueling, sword drawn,
even in dreams

word; the only weapon
that lasts.

Yellow Like the Sun

You bring sunshine,
smiles of petaled gladness
sprouting
from your delicate face;
another miracle, still standing
in a world of chaos.

Before Midnight

We stepped out of page twelve
onto the dance floor,
both, with two left feet,

both, in perfect step
with one another.

Leaving the Ninety-Nine

It all started with clasped hands
as wishes turned to prayers
for calm; for tender flowing ripples
to escape the tidal waves
of my imagination

where days were scripted,
fairy tales, recreated,
my character, decorated

in white and glass-

back when I imaged these clouds
were majestic mountains
and a small pond,
an endless, winding river

to carry me away;

this faithful dreamer, this poet;
this lost sheep, run astray
from the ninety-nine

the one

you ushered back
into the fold.

Manuscript- book #3

Filed away;
poems numbered
from one to one hundred
breathing
each time I open my laptop;
a reminder
they will never be perfect.

Swirling Ink Into Poetry

If the door is bolted, barred,
humanity masked,
I will sun by the window;
catch fireflies in my mind,
wait to touch clouds
until you come.

If the fog hides the stars;
penetrates the moon,
I’ll consume the pages
you created; read you
from the beginning,

trace our steps
from when flowers bloomed
for the first time
and trees sprouted;

grew wings.

We can swirl pen and ink,
twirl syllables into sentences;

your word, in the center,
mingling with mine
in amorous collaboration.

In the Wilderness

The state of abandonment

forces you
to realign yourself;
to look deep
within the hidden places

and up
for the answer.

.

The Climb

You collect each one
in a bottle
to remind me
where I came from

and how far
up this mountain
we have climbed.

.