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.