the sky is silent

ashen drumming
fingers of the night
tears of the clouds
hold your breath
exhale
shadow of a killing frost

the sky is heavy

the sky is silent

silent burden
on the ancients
layer after layer
glassy and cold
dreaded dreaming
catastrophe
cacaphony

the sky is dark
darkness all
the sky will freeze
before it falls

we may lose
the pictures,
moments clung to
by mortal frailties

empty spaces
echo something
beautiful

we may lose
the time
unconquerable
but spent so fast

but you, I’ll keep
divine memoir
dearest heart

I’ll keep this safe
I’ll keep this always
there will be no purge
of memory

when the silence
comes for me
I’ll sing

what day is it…?

I sang to the ocean
I sang to the sky
I sang to her, and she
she answered

that was something new

unlike the falling
(it’s the hitting the ground that hurts)
when you’ve nowhere to land

home is a place
to land your heart
sometimes even
a place to sleep

or not so often
when your heart’s out
walking in the countryside
searching for the way

home

seems so much
more
so much farther
when you’ve seen the world
lived the world
by days, by air
by train, by steps

to wander is to live

to return
is to reflect

you are a reflection
of yourself
as is the sunrise
on the water
the ripples, evidence
of your travails
the waves
though gentle
are your scars

sometimes

when an ending’s a beginning
when trepidation turns to
confidence
and comfort

when a dream just lies awake
in perfect prose

when you even dare to speak

the words you know
might prove you wrong
the words that you have hidden
all along

I’ve heard of hoping
but some things are better left
to disbelief

most of all I miss the sky

we’ve strength enough for sorrow
a tragedy for two
but oft averted
by a voice
by a moment
by a choice

I’m still afraid, but I understand

and I’m waiting to fly
willing to fall
into these sunsets
that I’ve captured
for a heart held
honest
homespun
fairytale

sometimes I’m sentimental like that

cut and dried
a song sung low
but heartfelt

sing it back to me

One hand,
brushed lightly
held so tender
held so
-close

One shoulder,
stalwart refuge
comfort claimed

-your eyes,

wide with sleeplessness
green and brown
by halves
a whole so utterly
enthralling
still

another place at
some other time; i don’t know

but i start with sleep 

They tell me France is nice this time of year.

The winds they whisper
through the pines
across the beaches
to the shore, to a home so far away.

They told me France was nice this time of year;
I might see home before the winter.

The white wings whisper
through the pines
across the waves
from far-off beaches, coming home.

They tell me France is nice this time of year.

I remember.

just half-remembered
impressions are all that’s left
no less disturbing