only a lilac tree

buds curl inward;

last year’s blossoms

fold in on themselves,

becoming memories.

only a

lilac tree could hold these lessons

with

such bold defiance.

blossoms

so close to blooming,

and last

year’s buds are only memories now

one thin wisp of cloud

it’s midday.

i empty the used coffee grounds

from the press.

it’s too late now for

another cup.

i carry the

grinds to the compost;

walking barefoot through the grass

the air is thick with humidity

the lawn

feels damp underfoot.

i pause, gaze upward,

shielding my eyes

from the sun.

above me,

one thin wisp

of cloud.

it seems adrift, out of place.

can you see this?

wherever you are,

can you see this?

the shape of the cloud

is so feminine

in shape;

voluptuous, round,

gesturing in a way that is both crude

and shy way.

can you see this?

i feel out of place.

here in the yard,

on the grass soaked with humidity.

can you see me?

wherever you are,

can you see me?

i stand there until

the cloud

melts away into blue,

a rich blue,

a humid blue.

wherever you are,

can you see me?

colors

rainwater pools
on
the field
reflect
the sky
and the setting sun
they glow with color;
from
one surface to another
crimson fading into violet
and then night falls.

birdsong

i began to wonder
about the melody
you sang
then
the bird became
quiet

colors

My body holds memories.
I sense time slipping by
through my fingertips.
Sometimes I lie awake
and trace the lines
that reveal my story
in the thickness
of my gut.
or I wander in
my dreams
looking for colors
that belong to things
I’ve forgotten.

cloud

a cloud
too graceful
to be gray
what do i know
about grace

ink

i dreamed last night.

i couldn’t find my pen.

wait, that’s not quite right.

i didn’t really lose it.

it was just hiding from me.

that’s different.

i couldn’t write anything.

my fingers felt tangled.

and without it,

nothing made sense

at all.

maybe this sounds confusing.

but it isn’t.

in my dream, i woke up

and saw the pen

was in my bed, and it had burst

now i was covered

in thick ink

that flowed over my body

and eventually into my mouth.

when i tried to speak,

i gurgled

and jumbled

and tangled thoughts

spilled out of my mouth.

the tree and the moment

There is
a tree,
it is passing.
it is
dying.
I won’t call it sickly.
It isn’t.
It stands quietly,
Its branches reach out,
still strong,
stretching out into
the sky.
It lets its leaves fall.
So in love with
this moment.
it will
let this last forever.

time

This is time.
Cedar shingles
tell the story of seasons,
weathered and gray.
an unasked question.
a hint of passion
left unresolved.
Time heals
in scattered pieces.
Small fragments
of a face
once kissed and
now forgotten.
Time is a name,
one called out
in a dream
and unanswered in
waking life.
This is time.
a boy full of innocence
becoming a man
far too soon,
holding steady,
offering shelter,
holding words.
Time hasn’t moved,
only the distance
from my fingertips
to yours,
from my mouth
to your body.
This is time.
a face
aged by life,
wrinkled and worn,
with eyes
that burn with
fearful intensity.
a gift given by time,
Only by time.

unseen

you are gone,

time cannot hold on to what it once held.

you’ve seen this before,

somewhere

we were together here,

just like lovers are,

unseen by anyone.

you drift away,

lost in dreams.

gone

but time still brings you back.

lovers remain in time,

in dreams.

memories still kept close.

you and i,

lovers kept in time.