This boy
speaks
through all the depths
of my being
– not
my heart he carries
away
but the We
leaving such an ache.
The distance
tearing us
again and again
into
him. me.
Sliding
between our
two worlds
I am more –
and less
than
before we met.
Once
other hands
protected me
Walking through these fields
feeling
the strength
of his hand now
I struggle to stand
all over again.
What is this love?
Funny isn’t it how late afternoon is also early evening and is (just as surely) – night – depending on the time of year In the scrapbook…
Before I walked inside it looked ordered, pleasant I might make a difference, if small They knew I could never stay no matter how bright, sunny, nice, agreeable (unlike the cottages tidy and white on the outside – inside, dark and sad) In the cottages small hands still waited to be held little voices to…
Baroque sounds massage the night. little boy whispers, “mommy, would you like it if s o m e …
My daughter says ‘Mother Earth always wears a watch’ How does She know what color to paint the sky? or when to quiet nature’s sounds? Absentmindedly she reaches for a bunch of colored pencils.
Stepping across the threshold leaving one reality, embracing another – if only for a few moments Inside a fan mutely, slowly bathes the room in a slight breeze long, slender blades dip (ever so slightly) as if to caress my husband resting in the bed below were it not for the four posters standing sentry…
Her worn collar long faded and stained used to be hot summer pink with lime-colored palm trees dancing ‘round Set against a pale yellow-white coat – she might as well have been wearing diamonds Later came the grass and mud, chocolate (swiped pastry) and a few garden remnants… over time each stain became an embedded…