His voice came across

sternly as
he told her what to do.
She trembled. But she did it.

There were so many thorns on the roses.
Pruning was difficult. But she knew, she knew
that to make the bush more beautiful
she had to cut
away the dead wood.

She cried silent tears, salty tracks down her cheeks
As the thorns pierced her grasp, the scissors slipping just
a little as she cut the overgrowth choking out the new green.

When the dormant season was over,
the roses were more glorious and beautiful
than they had ever been.


These Times

Apocalypse dread and the eclipse, 

Things are weird and strange with smoke in the distance

From fires in another country…

A slight breeze in the trees

And overcast skies

warn us, too,

that winter is coming.

Vampire’s Lament

There is no heart beating in me,
not in actuality.
I am the long undead.
I have no breath
To catch
When I see your beauty.

But there you are on the stair,
With your long white neck
To tempt me,
And I cannot see past
the flash of your jeweled eyes.

The catch of your own breath when you notice my gaze, the heat of your unaware longing for
my kiss–
these give my body memory of sentience far gone,
echoing heartbeats of
when I was capable of love.

What The Water Knows

Does the water know

it sparkles in the sun?

Do those hard grey stones bruise as the rapids rush by?

Cold in the deep,

warm in the shallows–

is the heavy depth of stillness

quiet like sleep?

Such a long journey from bubbling spring

to vast ocean

must be tiring.

(See the spines of the fish, rainbow treasures of scales sloughed off

as a gift in the water.)

What tree’s deep roots reach into the muddy

creek bottom–

pulling molecules of water from beneath the surface to the top, green leaves glistening…

The water’s voice–shall it rise in anger over the sharp edges of the rock ledge,

pooling down below–

dwindle to a murmur

past the pebbles of the shore’s edge,

lapping against the canoe

laid to rest on the sand

as we picnic in the sun, by the sparkling, oblivious water.