July

cardinal_male_big_tree

Days of summer
Are so few numbered.
Golden days filled with heat,
Traveling into warm nights
A favorite season.

This July begins,
With no need to seek life at its cradle
A new journey starts.
It is time to put away,
Rid and purge,
Box up junk,
Hold the garage sale,
Donate what’s not needed,
And then,
End a chapter,
Turn the page.
Reach, stretching toward loving hands,
In that place of life and peace
Where morning is heralded in birdsong,
Written in silly verses of the cardinal, the tufted titmouse,
The mockingbird, and finches–
All who do battle with cute well fed bushy tailed vermin
Attempting to steal away all the seed,
I wake each morning beside beauty beyond any,
Any I have ever known,
Heart filled,
Complete.

11:12 AM Picture Sent

 

Such discarnate words
have no power, life–
struggle so for air, color–
to capture some tell-tale sign
of the animate.
Letters swirl and dance
in some perverse pretense of desire
to procreate,
to mirror a thing
resembling the beauty
in a picture sent at 11:12 AM
of yellow irises,
wandering purple jew,
privet sprigs and blooms,
purple sage flowers,
and rosemary sprigs
in perfect arrangement.
But these letters,
these words
never find
that perfection,
that beauty,
that touch upon a heart, upon a soul
as flowers chosen and cut
from your yard
and arranged
by your hands.

Dovetail

Certainly, there never has been this.
This wanting, such a perfect thing.
Never has there been
this joy or this missing.

Never did I think
to find such joy
in the ache of missing,
feel it beneath the breast bone,
thus I discover parts
of myself hollowed out
by winds and waters
all my edges smoothed
in preparation for you
who fits and fills
each dip and hollowed place perfectly
as if custom made for each other
by hands larger than our own
to fit easily together
in a series of simple clicks
to complete, to complement
a fit of strength and equal parts

 

Truth

What truth is there but this?
Contained within the sand, wind,
An inky blue sapphire sea
Watching whales and seals play
As they sing their songs of joy
I listen
Their language so foreign to me
A vocabulary of rejoicing
In all that God has made
I can neither interpret nor define
Within this human construct
That it seems God forgot
Yet I seek to know
What they say
Of love
Of grief
Of play
Of joy

Home

we rode the ferry
you and I

chunks of bread
you fed the gulls
who stopped mid flight
bowed their heads to you
or so it seemed
before snatching the bread
from the treasures of your hands

wiping your hands clean upon your jeans
you laughed,
such simple things—
the wiping of your hands and your laugh

it was then we turned
to watch dolphins
arch their backs
surfacing for air
in the gulf waters

And a wish to cherish you
came to mind
treasuring the word
my heart sings
when in your arms—
home.