Winter Solstice

Our love began in the dead of winter,
outside twelve degrees, trees bare, ground asleep.
On the longest and darkest night of the year,
bursting forth blue and burning like a young star just born out of a callismal occurance.
Most star systems have companions,you know.
Solitary stars like our sun are rare,
an island in space quarantined by light years.

Foresight

I want to live in a place where the Spanish moss swings, hangs,
as low and as heavy as the humidity.
Fresh fruit,
fragrant,
from trees,
gathered by barefeet, early morning dew covered,
for breakfast.
I want to live in an old sage-painted wood house that smells of mahagony, cinnamon and cloves.
Where the stairs always creek,
and there are candled mason jars lined in the windows,
a beacon of light guiding you home.

heavy

I come beladen: books,
bags, purses,
a bed, a couch,
square plates, those fancy wine glasses you always like,
my two favorite coffee mugs
my polaroid camera and
one red Underwoood typewriter.
Tracking guilt onto your welcome doormat, I leave my things on your foyer.
You, instead,
indeed, without question,
make cups of African Rooibos tea, heavy on the honey, light on the judgement,
drink with me.
Silently, intuitively,
you know,
knew, always that I'd be back this way.
Suddenly, all at once.