Until You Greet Me With White Roses

I’ll have coffee on the porch swing
remembering how we laughed
when my feet didn’t touch the ground;

how we planned to grow old
watching fireflies
swirl ribbons ‘round willows;
dandelion dust carrying wishes
to clouds I wish I could see past

because I know there’s light
where you are.




Pull me close enough
to feel your warmth.
Brush past me
with scent of flowers.

Let the soft
of your humility
rub off on me.




Some days
I want to stay fragile
within a cocoon of petals
but, I’m a warrior.
My stripes run

until all my yellow
fades away.



Love Letter #69: Poetry

I heard harp strings sigh;
felt a moon sink
and rise again
with just a flicker
of impending fallen stars.

Hold my world
while I climb
into your deep eyes;
into your thoughts,
and drink.

What if my life
was just a metaphor
I woke up from?
You would still be here,
in the center
churning syllables,
pounding out words,
looking pretty

like that first
Underwood typewriter felt
under my fingers.




Jealous stars dance pirouettes
‘round light disguised as day.

Fireflies share secrets;
carry fullness of clouds
to a circle of gladness,

a metaphor for love.



Full of Grace

between March
and May,
like a flower
amidst weeds

for pollination;

a vision
in an artist’s eye,

somewhere in the middle.



Spring Cleaning

I thought I swept you
under the rug,
set the sofa on top
and tacked along the edges,
so no dirt could escape,

but, it’s April;
the windows pried open,
curtains carried to the porch;
sheer shade of blue, shaken,
ruffles swaying in the breeze.

Even the highest cupboards
can be reached with a stepstool;
cobwebs from the corner,
dusted away with feathers,
like memories
from the recesses of my mind.

I forgot about that one closet
where wool coats hang
in bags with mothballs.

I swung it open
in a fit of Spring cleaning
and years fell upon the floor,
like piles of old bones

from the broken framework
of us.