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Golden Threads Between Us

The heart is such a fragile vessel
pulsing pain through arteries,
red like the rose of friendship;
of love. Oh, love
is a sorrowful noun,
the most beautiful predicate

in the middle of our sentence.

You paid the ultimate cost;
shed petals for our transgressions.
Your feelings fell;
dripped from thorns
after all the blossoms
were gone.

The same star filled December skies
and cried , why, why, why
and you answered sweetly
without reservation,

that this was destiny.

The cardinal at my window
drowns out sounds
of my aching, reverberating
through the empty corridors
of past tremblings

proverbial knots
in my stomach
in golden threads
between us,
that bind my muse
to thoughts of you,

and that four letter word
keeps following behind
just close enough
to sink into my spirit
and flow in and back out

like love always does.

~
I am writing a poem a day from November 24th until December 25, 2017 to celebrate the birth of Jesus. .. This is day 17.

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The Cost

The flowers you planted
in the back yard, bloomed,

the willow ceased weeping.

I crave the beauty of your presence
in the two o’clock A.M. .silence

wind rushing through my hair;
the words you left,
honeysuckles to my ears.

Oh, let me read you!;
find the meekness
in the whole of your spirit,
the forgiveness
that remains, still,

between each thorn.

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Love Letter #59: Vows

You gave me gifts
before I felt grass
between my toes;

heard birdsong
in chorus
with the beating
of a broken heart.

I stumbled
time after time;
each transgression,
a slap in your face,

and when no one
could love me,
you did,
with the passion
no lover could fathom,
the grace, not even a mother
could muster.

Each time I make my way
to the altar,
there you stand

waiting to say “I do.”

~Penning a poem a day from today November 24 through December 25th, 2017 to celebrate the birth of Jesus. This is day 2.

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Love Letter #57: Crimson

In dreams of black and white,
he was covered in red,
modestly draped in white,

but the crimson ran through

for me, for you,
for us
and our transgressions.

He must be blue now,
looking down
upon the flight of birds;
the separation, devastation

the killing
of us,

but, the wind cries joy
with no regret;
no shame,

because the son
shone grace
upon every bowed head

each iniquity, falling
at the foot of his cross.

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Love Letter #56: to Fireflies

It was one year to the day he left
in the coolness of March.
I waited
for a star to fall like it had that night.
I needed another sign from God
that he was somewhere warm;
somewhere sweeter

than the wildflowers we walked through
in that same field where I sat,
waiting,

then, came something softer
than a constellation
but, as close as a whisper,
with wings.

My head in my hands,
it all came back;
the song, the lyric
of him;

the smile on the lips of his last words,
echoing like lost syllables in damp air,

but then, this flickering thing,
it multiplied, divided-
like stars,
exploding in the Heavens
and there I was
under a skyful of light

wondering how could I
have ever doubted
you.

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On Days Without Adjectives

I pinned my dreams
on an old clothesline
like mismatched socks

waiting for the right mate.

Night after night,
it was lonely, except for stars
leaning in to kiss my face
under a waning twilight
and a side-slung moon.

I stayed until dawn,
just to see blossoms
and speak to birds
about how you never listened
to my words,
because they didn’t rhyme
anymore,

but my lips; my cheeks
are much pinker now
without you.

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Love Letter 53: Elvis and an Empty Chair

I keep two chairs on the porch
even though the conversation
is one-sided and the coffee

doesn’t quite taste the same.

Some nights, when the stars
are brighter than usual,
I turn Elvis up louder,
and share our song

and sometimes,
I could swear
as those white roses sway
in the evening breeze,

I hear you join me
in the chorus.