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Grace

You dipped fingers
in the wet paint,
rubbed palms together,
like a blood brother,

scrolled through the pages
to find that perfect place
to leave your print

your smeared,
imperfect signature

in the book of life;

an invitation to love
that all started
with a word.

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Love Letter #81: Ripple Effect

In the evening, when nature hums
collectively,

take pause

to follow sounds of peace
that dwell within;
psalms that whisper inner thoughts,
not of your own,
and a shaking
from the depths of your soul

that arises thoughts,
revives senses
you believed were mute,

awakens the muse

to sing praises like nature does;
like sun rising and setting in his eyes

flowing to you.

Be the river
that connects our spirits
resounding joy,
erasing doubt,

leaving only love
to catch his breath.

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Love Letter # 80: (Page 24)

He sent a messenger,
upon a mountain,
to plead mercy
over impending ashes;

folded flowers of the field
faded grass in unripe soil,

and then you came:

and I drank you in
like the last cup of tea
in fine china.

Oh, light in the dark,
you never leave me.
In the torrent,
you cover my face;
save every tear
behind glass,
every smile
in a shadow box

of love.

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What the Wind Can’t Carry

There is a fork in the river
that interrupts the flow,

where you choose north
to rise above it
or sail to the south.

The fall is quick and easy,
soft, temporary landing-
but, the flight is perilous,
uphill, against the wind;

the path less traveled

but the fruits,
oh, how they flower!

ripples tickle the senses,
perk the petals,
spread the word
to all who will listen;

the trumpet
only the remnants
hear.

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Love Letter #79: Stowaway

As I looked across the table at him,
my soul, a two way mirror-
heart dissected, chastised
like love often is,
deflated, misunderstood
like the rhythm
of crashing cymbals
in a poet’s head at 3:00 am.

Everything seems dark these days
fists raging against the wind,
teeth clenched.
He runs beside the train,
she drops her backpack to her feet,
relaxes her face muscles;
exhales.

We still flow like a river,
soft, steady ripples
like my skin
in the wake of his fingers.

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Love Letter 77: Instrument

There are moments
when even poets
need no words
when syllables silence,
his fingers slide
across the palm
and criss-cross into mine
like a sanctuary for hearts;
the flow of feelings,
hum in symmetry
playing us softly,
like strings of a harp;
like poetry
off the tongue.

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Love Letter #76: Creation

As flowers tickle tiny bare feet,
petals fall from fingers

he loves me,
he loves me not;
life spun into a silk dress
hands hold a bouquet
reflecting the light

from my eyes
to his
loving
days and nights after

my giggle, his smile,
under a sky full of stars
all formed

from just the sound
of your voice.