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.

In the Flutter of Wings

In the morning light
I watched the hummingbird
In the butterfly garden
When a monarch stopped by too

What a spectacle and spectrum of wings
These two do present
Feeding upon the nourishment here
The Monarch, a slow, tender flutter
The hummingbird, a battering blur of the air
In this spectrum of movement
Is there some secret knowledge,
A truth they seek to share
Differing by vast degrees
Of the same elemental force
Against the air
The aloneness within the movement
A thing that cannot be shared
For I have never seen
Either fly in tandem
With another of their kind
The journey to this garden
Each one took alone
Each seeking the same nectar
Each hungering
Yet alone in the seeking
Is there something profound
They wish to say
With each flutter and flap of wing?
Or is the message simple and concise?
Yes, perhaps it is just this—
We each journey in the seeking
Alone.