Winter comes and wakes me up. It has been a long sleep.

Sleeping, I confess, was much easier than coaxing rusting joints into action. The larger part of strength has gone but the memory of strength remains and that is of some use.

Snow falls like shattering champagne flutes. I brush it from my shoulders and the chill cuts my fingertips.

Conversations held while half-asleep blur into the dreams and the effort to parse the real from the imagined is seldom worth. I may not have said those things but in many cases I certainly could have.

I spoke to a brother who lost his twin; I spoke to a sister who lost her older sister.

I wondered who was dreaming the three of us.

It has been a long sleep.

Walking by the lake last night.  The smell of dirt, stagnant water, and horse poop.  In the chill air, it was almost pleasant.

Rings

Felled trees reveal rings of scorched bark from infernos past
and below the stump
the roots remain locked in their nursery stone
where seed had clung to split and crevice
until they grew through living rock to reach the soil

surrounding fields grow pretty with waving grasses in rich loam
to succumb to snowy blankets every winter before
and every winter after

Outside Noises Against Inside Walls

Outside noises against inside walls
shape the morning trudge
from bed to bath to breakfast
table
chair
car
seat
desk
chair
Until the corners of her mouth break like dawn
The only smile undiminished in the flourescent lights
Unfrayed among the cowards clinging to their duty

Electric Brain Cell Topical Storms

electric brain cell
topical storms
gnash their mitochondria
whilst decisions sit serene
in the eye untouched bemused

lighthouses came first
the jagged strands surrounding
rose from the seas
in reverance to the solemn structures

Departure Thrives In Morning

Departure thrives in morning
when the drowse still beads on our brows
like glistening dew on flower thorns

Regrets alike, real and imagined, gather
Somber in their traveling clothes

Goodbyes and promises to meet again
hover low like punctuation
waiting to make us into epilogues

A Near-Gone Scented Teacup Candle

a near-gone scented teacup candle
sputters in a cardboard cadence
box

cloying ginger tea leaf fragrance
clings to her hair still chestnut damp
from the monsoon shower an apothecary
of clouds rumbled onto her

hinges on the cabin door long ago
fell red death masked
and the door in last dance with it
now lies quantum in its frame
half-opened or half closed

he knocked anyway and waited
she shook her hair and turned
waved both beckon and permission
in one gesture wrought for him

in candle flickers he reached for her
fingers threading a loom of palms
and then with brief unwoven hand
she pinched the flame to sleep