Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.
The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.
A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.
Darling, I know something about love.
It isn’t dressed in hazard red.
It isn’t laced in road closed puns.
Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.
There is a dusting on the road…
a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.
Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.
But then again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.
Spring day in February
Hurt, ache, dispersed…and, now whisked away for just one day.
A particular release that no written word can negate.
The aroma of hope absorbed in cedar turns from scent to sound.
Magic in enjoying languid moments…
relishing in standing still with no chill, no longer a myth.
There is music in loving winter when it decides to go.
In the dark months, I attempt to realize not ‘everything is in my mind.’
In the light of now…when wind turns to breeze, my feet dare not touch the ground.
A fleeting thought as the sun goes down,
‘when the weather changes…never be the last to know.’
I ask, ‘what good is a word…wrapped in barbwire?‘
It is expression squeezed dry of color.
Cross-words lacking landscape…deprivation in an isolated world.
An imperfect storm in which memory is unfurled.
All this language bantered about with the hue of integrity bleeding out.
When will childhood become a Polaroid from the past?
Words, words, words, ugly…looking to get further down the road.
Not knowing where they were first planted.
How poetic is a provincial leaf?
Such as, a gentle morning’s kiss.
A brisk breeze will toss sheltering soldiers…to the ground.
Many are red, the rest are mostly, brown.
One by one by one they tumble.
A quilted tapestry erupts all around.
Such is the passing of a friend…
New life beginning.
As another season artfully ends.