Traces

I’ve tried to find you –
your eyes turn into miniature globes,
countless wishes, countless stars.
I can hear you calling
from time’s reckless boundaries -
endings always happily ever after.
The shade is speckled,
Queen Ann’s lace has a poison sister,
delicate skeletons hang from her stem.
Wind rises and falls,
concerto of heart beat,
movement of wringing hands.
My wrinkled and veined fingers
nail down dreams.
A small hole at the base of a tree
tempts me -
there is always another beginning.
I settle onto a rock dressed in gold moss,
one empty space in my mouth
waits to hold a pearl.
This is the way, it’s been said -
set three words on fire,
look under a leaf, over a cloud.
I don’t believe any of it.
My foot is placed here
between two roots
on a cushion of dead leaves.
A lost thought beckons -
I wait for the rustle of your scent.





The Grass Blows Yellow

The wheel is rounded  
cold, tree limbs stark,
naked.  No dread -
blood stirs, bone strong
I stand, barren rock ridge.
I have met my dead sister,
begun to excavate
the stones from her belly.
I am ready, I am alive,
the grass blows yellow,
mud hardens, the moon is huge.
I’ve let the geese go over and over
waved goodbye,
paid for a warm sweater.
A bitter wind plays, rips,
downs the last leaf.
I’ve rolled back the stones,
I am rising up,
I am biting back.

Concerto

Frosted white branches
twist into elaborate lace

framed by the window pane.
A violin climbs toward climax,

each note held a little longer,
slipping slowly one into the other,

past my mind’s eye filling with liquid gold,
beyond stars, through black holes.

Neurophysiologic research indicates
music develops brain function.

Fear and anger on the other hand,
follow a one way neural pathway

bi-passing rational thought.
Laundry bags of worry

pile up in dark corners.
I woke last night, drowning,

held under, struggling
to reach the light above.

I’ve lined up the salt and pepper shakers
on the table, centered them perfectly,

a small pearl in the palm of this day,
a kiss given to a moment –

what’s more important?
A barred owl alights on a branch,

watches alertly for its prey,
part of the fabric, barely visible.

Kiss me back,
It is never how I think.