the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

it continues

and continues

i wonder if our souls
speak different languages.
would your soul
recognize mine?
i want to see yours.
i awake
with this desire.
in the stillness of the night
i let mine call out,
come to me”,
it says,
we can hold this,
we can love this
.”

you peel away
the layers of an onion
the dried skin
flaking to
the ground
separating the folds
down to the off-white flesh
to the heart of it
watching you in exploration
as you uncover
each brittle layer
to watch you open
to watch you reveal

the winter solstice
is still days away
it gets dark so early
this time of year
i light the wood stove
before dusk
summer teases us
days stretch
on and on
and we fall asleep to
crickets and humidity
now the nights are long
they are full of
animal urges
and cravings
i imagine us
two naked bodies
intertwined on the floor
giving way to our
primordial needs
our flesh
illuminated only by the
flickering flame of the
wood stove

to see that from
within;
to give craving
title and place. 
lines upon flesh
drawn in earth
cyclical markings.
rich, carbon
rubbings
blurring borders
with past
and present.
marks indicating space
and time,
linear and non,
tell of longing.
repetitive
and endless
like breath
connected,
like breath redirecting
awareness to the moment.
the gesture of holding
addiction close,
of cradling the self unforgiven, 
to re-examine frailty,
to reconsider weakness. 
repetition 
gives form to longing, 
it reveals craving.
presence,
an embodied body,
lines mimicking breath. 
carbons presence,
its lack of presence;
the extension of my being,
from innermost
to finger tips.
onto linen,
to surface external,
to give form
to the unformed,
a portrait of the unsaid.
farther, still,
longing to dust;
to residue,
momentary existence,
held
and held again.
and held again.  

the kettle begins to whisper
it is morning and it groans
to life as if against its will
my cat nudges my leg
‘i am here’
it seems to says
with no demands on me
a frost has settled
it covers the world
in crystals that flicker
in the shifting morning light
i am torn between
joy and heartache
between running towards
and running away
the jeremiah of the past
is leaving
i am not sure
how to say goodbye
i want to make amends
i want to wrap you up
and tell you of the pain
i was going through
the pain that was the beginning
of my transformation
i want to bring you with me
to carry you over
the jeremiah of the past
fades each morning
fades like the frost crystals
in the shifting morning sun
there is such joy here
in this new world
but the heartache
has followed me
perhaps it will
follow me always
into every new jeremiah

the white night-shirt
in my sock drawer
no longer carries
your scent
when it did
i always found
it hard to describe
the smell
of the lacy
garment
the scent was not only
of perfume
but of a body
not only of a
body but of a soul
a soul that
held me in such a way
i wanted so desperately
to keep the smell
wrapped up within the
fibers
wound tightly into the
silken threads
but it didn’t hold
try as i might
it didn’t hold
now winter has arrived
and the delicate cloth
is the color of the snow
and lost within
the bleakness
of memory