If Only She Were Here

When you wear that last ring,
a sunset wraps into your hand,
into your bones,
a wobbly vase tottering along
in shadow puppet shoes,
still trying to meet her again,
and so you must remember her.

Take care, you say-
She has missing parts
where her scattered ashes flew-
a dream-catcher's breeze took it
on a breath of shattered glass.

You know she walked away
You hid her, take her out
from the hollows of your heart;
the last shadows sway on the wall,
a pendulum sweeps the hall
so she can come in.

Ode to Earth (II)

The grace of her lord dwells here,
in all that she shares-
she, the most faithful,
with eyes for no one else.

In this life she sleeps,
Dreaming of past rivers, broken
in the sea of empty seas,
With him, burning so bright,
the shepherd of a million souls.

Humble sentries keep her still
Wrap her in cruel, old shadows-
the stories, in the night
to hide her gentle soul, so still,
from the cold realm he keeps.

Yet, she trembles, murmurs
her hopes to a senseless sky-
To be free, at last,
to see the one she adores most!

One day, someday,
His glorious light will rise,
His last coming, rapturous goodbye,
To spirit her away.

Like her lost sisters, angels
waiting in their rafters,
She'll scatter flesh and bone
to the heavens once more.

Ode to Earth (I)

New roots crackle in soft ground,
the battle above, long finished;
pieces of wind stray, torn
on the shadows of pennants green.

Forever is the siege below,
the soft ground, the fairest
in any starry eyed soul,
a place so uncomely
in all but its secret eyes,
an endless heart, it stole
from the lord of light.

Forever her heart opens,
her soft gaze lost at sea,
where no broken spirits,
no ghosts can dwell.

Forever the wanderers seek
with hunger of new life,
with twisting trails of winding years,
to open arms so blind
(and the sky leads them away).

Summer Belongs Here

The earth falls in me;

heavy pieces of rain-

spring, sneaking in

on silver tap shoes

through young skirts of mist.

A sea of cottons drowns

all but the shadow sky- and me-

who lies

with eyes to fly away,

on lashes the wings of moths,

a sweet, paper pair

rapping at my button cottage door.

A hollow of butterflies,

filled with the pulse of the sun-

it ripples in my ear, tell me to go

where they have been

on wings of gold lace, silver strings

faster than any sea.

A whole world of leaves-

through the dry window

on the wings of a lost fly-

a story made for empty air.

The heart of the earth is a broken star,

bare as the rare, unarmed evergreen

hiding behind yellow feather hands-

yet it coaxes a lullaby

into a body as open as the wind.

Look Up

The celestial ballroom opens its doors,

so cold beyond the dream;

The age of masquerade is seized,

possessed by wild phantoms unbound.

Alabaster hands become

rivers slow, unmasked eyes

blinded, groping

for a balcony in empty sky,

ribbon-tied feet not up, down but

head over heels.

At last, proud gems burst-

a rosy spiderweb filigree

hot as any hell;

Just another day, apparently,

of the empty rage- still cold-

yet unquenched.

To Love a Poem

Some say, it is to reach out,

take a forbidden hand,

run with her

through soft midnight beads,

a million pieces of an eye ,

to look away, with her,

as the world blankly stares

into heaven's endless embrace.

Some say, it is to love nothing,

to see her doe eyes

gaze from every lost dream;

through time not promised to her

you hear her whispers, a dandelion's

silver trees in the air-

hope is the thing with feathers.

I say it is worse- to be thirsty rain,

angry ice with fingers

blown from broken trees,

thinning wind still longing

to hear you find its name;

For me,

for these,

the sun shines on another day.

Light Summer Night

Even heavy firs awake

in the moment, the pinprick,

the right measure

long plucked from wind.

Old henna lattices open,

deep veins staining through;

a strange, rich calligraphy

to pressed flower sky.

Deep as teardrop symphonies,

spherical mysteries grow

opal fingers, thin as ice,

to clamp fistfuls of light.

The dry square matchboxes

(where old souls hide)

catch in full fire, a dance

to fall on en pointe shadows-

dry, fresh rivers, runways

to and from the air.

Every branch, every scar of smoke

remembers to fly,

remembers to grow thick plumes

in old peacock green, beetle brown;

Every flower already blown alight,

the sweet air is full of flight.