Friday, May 31, 2013



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.

Friday, May 3, 2013

April Showers


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. 



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.