Falling

 

Love is that blinding light that peels back the darkness, exposing the twisted roots of vulnerability---wishes and dreams too painful to reveal. The very wings that lift you to the sun's embrace are easily singed by the fire. Like Icarus, you will fall, burn to ashes and scatter like dark confetti across a green sea.

     It sleeps, this love, wintering deep in a heart that spring has forgotten. There is the fear of never being loved, of being left behind and bleeding out memories that whisper a spiritual death. Dawn streaming gold through a thin veil of trees is lost on the blind. You feel your way through corridors of the past, conceal the bruises carried quietly inside you. You cannot save the broken soul with cracks too deep to heal.

     Love is that cage where birds dream of taking flight. Release it and its name will stain your lips. The secrets you share burn slowly from embers to thaw the frozen heart. Desire spreads its wings, bringing light to all the hurts you've worn like a badge of courage. Wipe away the tears and catch the one who is falling.

April Showers

MISSOURI RAIN

They predicted rain this morning

with thunder growling like an old dog

on my front porch.

Today the optimara violets

bloomed crimson--

larger than the ones in my mother's garden

where I buried her broken china

tea cup in mud when I was five.

At Uncle Bob's funeral

she held her coat over

my head

when we walked through the rain---

pennies falling

on a canvas shelter

over his grave.

Somewhere in Florida

on a cloudless day

my mother waxes the dining

room table, lemon oil

thick with summer heat.

She rubs out finger prints

and the rings where my elbows

rested last spring.

I look in the mirror

trace the curve of my nose

the line by my eyes,

her eyes,

and wonder if she hears the rain

falling through my fingers. 

   

RAIN BALLET

The sun folds gray eyelids

against fat, aggressive clouds

that envelope light

storing it in deep pockets

for spring.

It is cold, the color of iron

tastes of ashes and late snow

leaves staining the pavement

where puddles cup the sky's

solemn glare.

Ballet of wind

tiny feet dancing

over slippery window panes

a celebration of water

in a song that only I

can sing.