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Out of the Box

There are nights I find myself
standing at that old clothesline;
sleeves waving goodbye to this peace-

this solace that awakening brings,

searching for constellations
that seem to have left me empty
like the words you left
inside the wounds.

Here I am, fingers on the keyboard
feelings in my throat
waiting for the syllables to fall
like fireflies; like whispers

just before my pen hits the floor.

I climbed out of the box long ago
but you stand there, one foot in
one foot out, waiting for an answer;
a simple solution to the dilemma
that looks back at your reality
that cosmetics can’t cover up.

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Tumbleweed

Possibilities are endless
as aspirations blossom,
fade, and bloom again

with the rise and fall
of the sun;

stems firmly planted,
leaves curl,
petals waver in the wind,
wilt and gently tumble
like the sway of wildflowers
in a field of adversity,

edges tattered,
beaten,

bent, but never broken.

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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.

 

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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.

~

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Against This Present Darkness

Eyes rise and fall
with simple shading of clouds
upon a face;
a bowed head
seeking shelter
from raging tempests;

from love’s ache.

Night comes quietly
like snowflakes in winter;
like the whisper of psalms
​ beyond candlelit curtains.

I keep your words with me
soft syllables of grace,
sweet shelter

in the midst of my storm.

~

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Cleansed

I used to wait for rain
stand, palms up, pleading
for earth to fall away

so I could bloom;

sat under that weeping willow
many a Sunday, sleeping
under the swish of limbs,
tremble of railroads
echoing at my back-
ears attuned
only to cardinal’s song
to fade the noise
of Monday coming,

It took years of suffering
to open my wings,
to close the umbrella
to feel the son;

to feel the sun.

~

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Love Letter #43: Finding You

I happened upon your syllables,
between pages of love poetry,
drew hearts around the letters
of your name, following mine
and filled myself

with a new perspective.

I watched a flirtatious moon
and its surrounding stars
dance a delicate finale,
blue as midnight,

like the dreams formulating
in my head

and as the sun rose,
like a swirling of skirts,
all of the faded wildflowers
I walked past before,
bloomed at my feet,

pink as these blushed cheeks
that rose and fell
for you.

~