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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.

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To the Brim

You tap into a secret place;
your liquid flowing inspiration
through my waking veins

onto a page
of alliterated tongue;
sway of syllables marching
to your quickened beat,

like rows of yellow daffodils
promenading to the sun.

I see you swirl,
coloring my cup
with comfort;
my pen, with new ink

filling me warm, with your muse

like a favorite blanket
in the middle of winter.

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The Frailty of October

I find tranquility
in flowers
and forgiveness

in a field of constellations

when every eye is sleeping
and the only sounds I hear
are the whistle of midnight trains,
fingers typing bittersweet goodbyes,

and the echoes of a frail moon’s violin
strumming the last chords of October.

~

~prayers go out to the victims of the Vegas shooting and their loved ones ❤

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Love Letter #52: Turn the Page

As that door swung open
at 2:00 am,
(always my prophetic hour,)
I knew these bare feet
would find wildflowers;

fingers wrapped in the warmth
of his,
this heart –
skipping beats

within the sound of syllables

a collective sigh
of moon awaiting sun.

A first book is birthed in pain;
love spilled upon pages one
through forty-eight,
hidden in quivering pen
by the flicker of a candle,

but, turn the page,
and there is a light!;
a pirouette of words
swirling,

a kaleidoscope;
a skyful of enamored stars
and the joyful prance of souls

joining the letters
of love’s sentence

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Love Letter #49: Date Night

He was surprised
when I suggested we sit in the park

and just talk.
We could have had candles
and a vase full of roses,
napkins in our laps,
and the hum
of other conversations,

but I wanted him all to myself-

sun beginning to fade
with just the ripples in the pond,
scent of fresh cut grass
and the reflection of periwinkles
in his soft, brown eyes;

oh, that gaze he gives me
the one that makes me look away;
hold back the tears.

When I think of us
I think of daffodils;
a love so delicate, unfading
and gold as morning,
whispered new every awakening,
like dew upon petals;
like pages of poetry,

crisp, like the red of autumn.

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Eccentricities of Life Before Coffee

Lashes hesitantly fall open,
hips pivot feet to the floor;
shuffle, shuffle in pink slippers
making light of the day.

Outside these walls,
lingers hate, but, I turn,
blow it away, softly,
like daffodils
swaying good morning
to the sun

and when evening comes,
thoughts encircle me,
like stars;
keep me captive

until Spring comes calling.

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Messenger

I hear a voice
counting sheep for me
and patting my head

when it falls.

When the rain is too hard
to stand under,
he is my umbrella;
my shelter in the storm.

I see the sun breaking
through lace curtains;
the same light that led the way
when my feet were dragging

and the weight on my shoulders
was almost too much to bear.

When I speak,
unaware of the direction
my words may take,
I know he is holding my hand,
bringing ideas to fruition.

I only thought I was the poet.