grass and birds

The air lies still around me,
stymied by all my not having-weighed down with all my worries.
Heavy upon my chest, stealing relief-not granting it.
I with bated breath and clinched eyes lay still, maybe the air will forget that I am here, and impress its realities upon someone else.
But it remains, stale-its insistent silence its response- to my pleadings.

Fortune Cookie

You reappeared did you not?

I was warned was I not?

But you came again,

quietly, surely, you came again.

Stirring up the red clay dust of hope that lays on the ground of my soul.

Long settled, long undisturbed.

I with teary eyes strain to see your face, through the haze.

You smell of the earth, you smell of my dreams, you smell of my pain.

I reach for you, hoping, oh hoping, that with touch I can recall your form.

That I could remember what fingertips long have put to memory.

But it is not you, I find, no not the form that I once knew.

You are different, the same,but different,

somehow,

someway.

All the words I had prepared to send you away now fail me,

trapped in my throat.

You've come again, but you are new.

Somehow all things are new.

Untold

Wipe the sleep out of your eyes ,

early morning to night.

You have been sleep too long,

enchanted into still slumber.

Like the princess in the tower-waiting-not dead, yet not living.

For no one is coming to save you.

The childhood tales were not true.

Their is no knight, no trusty stead, no valiant honor.

Wipe the sleep out of your eyes, arise and wake

their is much to make of this life

their is much to do in this time.

And what was whispered, the spell that was spun was not truth ,but well intended, lies.

Oh heart,

oh daughters.

Eyes to see,

lips to taste,

feet walk.

Begin, begin

against ,perhaps, your own will

walk, maybe, poorly.

But you must do

But you must live so

Arise from your bed of waiting and go.

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.

perfect.