My voice: 



Life was calm 
and still

then you burst upon the scene

The world stirred
lifting me up in your energy

raising me like a
green summer leaf
in a whilrwind

Analogy of Falling

Pumpkins lie
round and orange and
rip in brown harvest fields.

The maples
have unfurled red banners
on the mountainslopes.

He is for me
as sunshine is for
budding winter wheat
and frost for apples.
At Parting
The heavens are dark, 
bruised and bleeding.
Streets swollen 
from the flood.

The wind howls its
pain around the corners
of the houses.
And trees echo the tale 
like concerned neighbors.

Cold shadows take the land
as the sun turns away.
The sky bids her love farewell
and breaks into tears.

When the last glow descends below
the horizon,
lightning strikes
and the thunder answers.

It's not the rain that
chills or blinds.
It's the parting.

Untitled (Written when I was 19)

In late fall
when the air is still and the leaves, fading
are subdued.

When skies are high and low and grey
and clouds scrape their soft undersides
against mountain crags.

In late autumn when
the trees are
broken windows,
their curtains torn where the wind has blown through.

When dark comes quicker,
pressing down
against the houses and the cars
making the streetlights turn on.

And in an autumn's dusky light
you know where you are
and maybe what you'll be as you watch
the crab apples go hazy red in the rain.

And while the drops roll down
the breath-misted pane
you even know who you are
because one late fall afternoon
he said your name.

Days of Grace 

When the sweet, warm wind blew
bending the grasses beside the highway
we flowed along the road
basking in late spring sunshine
below wide skies
we passed tractors and green fields
slipped past orchards sprawling across hillsides
smiles for each other
laughing for the joy
in two traveling together
I held onto your hand, felt the heat
and wished we could stop
the sun's steady advance toward
a not so distant horizon

tang of salt in the air
sweet beach childhood
days with Nana at the shore
memories flow in like a tide

music of a younger day/ its sweet words jar/ my blood skips a beat/ muscle memory from long ago heartbreak

Other Voices:


Why did I tremble a little
with Pushkin's passion, his
enticement for her rustling
lace, her smiles, the dreamy

face?  His seasoned love
immortalized is a ripple
of mine in a younger
time:  a flower at night.
I knew such a gush
once, that perpetual wine
in the blood, a head
full of the morphine of love,

and wondered where such
destiny lie, how God
was directing this steam,
this stampeding

energy corralled.
But when you turn
the corner again, I know full well
why Pushkin wrote.


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