I see them aloft-
your dreams,
high above your head-
something in pastels
shaded with deep red
and bold charcoal lines.
And the way
you look at these-
upward
with widened eyes-
draws me into your bliss,
warm and nestled
sitting in the corners
of your smile.
Yesterday, I cut back the burning bush
on the hill beside my house.
It never spoke to me.
Not once.
It had grown higher
than I stand, unchecked
for now thirteen years,
and never commanded me
to remove my shoes.
It is recommended
that the wings be trimmed in late winter,
before new growth begins.
The fly-away branches-gone now. Just
fragments discarded on some sad morning
and a rooted scrag in place
awaiting rebirth.
I see no divine providence
or transcription of holiness
in this. Hope will follow
in the spring.
Now, a deepening chill ebbs
-in vain.
Winter is not yet over,
and I tarry in the garden
alone.
It seems like a metamorphosis
of sorts.
There is evolution of the language
in the shade of pines,
assuaged by a sun companion,
the complexities of the song
from her secret heart-
a pastorale,
that lures and covers me.
I become sacrificial
and my tongue,
a voice in the chorus,
melds with the music.
A heightened song
of concurrence-
wrapped in vines of honeysuckle,
floating in basins of still water.
Ringing true, long after
the last word is uttered
in near, deep silence.
This place I recall,
where I stacked chairs
against the wall, placed in rows
like a caravan,
readied as a train to resign.
Something empty,
forgotten in a room
with silver clouds and wooden tomes
describing Vesuvius and its ashes
falling.
That which buries me
only spalls, and I – willing for lightning
to strike –
don’t forget that
beneath the cumulonimbus,
one part rains,
another part shades.
When the leaves are swept away at night
and the chill cleaves to me,
I am reminded that I am descended
from those who worked the land.
tilled soil – tossed stone
to harvest, afford a life of
growing and yearning, splitting
and churning a song of origins
as a lantern tilted
sheds light on enclosed spaces
of circumstance. Places where poems
are seen, but not written.
Tuneful sounds once heard in the labors
of daylight, lulled by passing clouds
and mute when night comes on. Dirt is rinsed
from beneath fingernails and sleep arrives early
with a crisp quilt. Night whispers
it’s own beginning and the wind tosses aside
that which grips me.
Somewhere, the moonlight
turned to give credence
to her tangled removing.
A breaker rolled in
that enticed
and embraced her.
Demands awakened-
her own hurt and pooling.
Somehow, a surging rush
made the unknown electric.
Bristling with joy,
fingered in choosing,
a lover in darkness,
confessing and soothing.
Bare trees anticipate
holding snow – amassed
in silent devotion
to the aesthetic
adorning the view
once green – now
lifeless and worn-
white poinsettias look best
when surrounded by red,
reflections from polished silver
are most notable
in darkness.
dropped ornaments
that shatter live on
as recollected ones,
objects to decorate
our mind’s branches.
between the nothing-dom
and something-ness
the lumens lean,
twisting axes-
a helix
in ideal darkness.
visionary – for both
a twinkle of wonder and awareness
of position-
modest in winds and poses
that once in a blue moon
align with man’s sense of mystery
on a coiling staircase.
shameless, peel back
in brazen arcs your wings-
dormant no more.
eased and alarmed
fire and calm
dark matters-
lights palm
her secrets.
glitter gold,
and watch reflections
patter on,
as specks surround
and attach beyond.
scintillate,
in flashing glows
the ions of your
aureate tongues.
move,
and flicker
until your crests
bestow a shade of flare-
and spread this frenzied
throe upon the night’s
affair.
it is only this –
a single droning way,
a backdrop for breathing, luring and lively
all in red or green or blue-
pink or yellow ribbons that remind us
of someone lost.
it is only this.
a surface, serene and affable
sometimes glowing and thinned
infinite until shattered.
and you step out
bleeding a bit of color
fresh from a palate.
it is only this.
Taps and Ratamacues 