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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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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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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 #51: Solace

When morning makes light
of transgressions,
tulips bow and bend
at the mention of his name,
I find solace in feelings;
a whisper of sacrifice
stretched across wood;
remembrance of a love
that crosses boundaries-
tenderly lifts burdens
into heart-shaped wings
of atonement.

~

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Love Letter #50: Sunday Shoes

Breath of wind, come
caress my face with petals
of sweetest flower
take hold of my heart
and dance me into
the essence of you;
your love cascading
the length of my hair,
every strand
finding fingers
to gently wrap ‘round
like daisies sway
on a lazy afternoon,
after skirts
and Sunday shoes
have passed.

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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.