the Northern Wallflower


The day after yesterday…

the lilacs were gone.

Then the iris.

One by one, they were, also,  all departed.

All, but the northern wallflowers…that is.

Never do the gods account for the ever so green…up on the ridge.

This is where the grassy knolls have always replenished me.

I come here daily to see what it is you see.

No, you are not just a simple plot of trees.

What has been, seen daily, yearly, at your limbs hand?

The growth so measurable…

Yet, your roots have begun a different kind of land.


In deepest sincerity,

my strength has atrophied.

But my vigor…as I watch your vastness…

I admit…is thought of differently.

In freshened mind, as you have portrayed…

I cannot walk this walk…only to return to my cave.

Though in beckoning winds I may…become altered.

A small resolution should not be what I am after.


Came fall, ever green will turn to rust.

Came winter, your poignancy will become a changeling, yet, robust.

Sheltering all who follow you.

Giving the time to renew.





Snowshoes in the Sand

If my reflection came easily, it would be built upon mirrored waters.

Bathed in twilight’s meandering sun.

Riding in on a high horse.

Several hands high.

Looking back would be nothing but…

an unconditional, good-bye.

The miles ahead?

An easily read map with routes I could choose or deny.

Yet, contemplation, a plethora of shine and showers, not so simple to define.

Its inventory, a snowshoe in the sand.

Too basic to understand.

Repugnant, regurgitated, bliss.

Straight lines to a closed fist.

The resolution?

A well-rounded, linear, first kiss.


What to Castrate?

If the phrase,

‘I am disappointed in you!’

Could be castrated.

I would hang it upon a wall.

Hung high above the impediments of swollen doors.

Hung high in a disorderly hall

Then, perhaps, an inscription of my own wants…five feet tall.

‘Alas, so am I!’

In equality,  the tattered room could be made small.

But the years have fled.

Such as, a prisoner who has committed no crime.

And, I have grown wise enough to know…

Such images are not part of my grand design.

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Just a Word


A sincere, well toned bicep.

The letters jumping out like a scare tactic.

‘Just a word…’

A visual of sensual static.

How diverse my thoughts can be…

When awakened from my migrant sleep.

Words…Have created an obsession ever since,

I believed they were items…

Never truly conceived.

Akin to a pig in a blanket of her own mess.

I would wrap myself up in pictures to relieve a writer’s stress.

Soon enough, my ego led to slaughter.

It is not the language that betrays me.

But the pleasing taste of indifference to conformity.