Poetry

Time moves forward,
unending, steady,
and steadfast.
Like candlelight,
the low slung rays
of sunlight glow
under the wispy 
clouds.
Winter has settled,
moving from the sky
deep into the soil,
burying life under
blankets of snow.
Yet it persists.
Life and love
share this persistence,
shining through the 
tribulations of time and
season.
Be full with them.

I stay to the edge,
avoiding the slippery,
packed track down the middle.
It is well traveled on this snowy day,
the “main drag” in the middle of
nowhere.
Walking salves frayed nerves,
gathers scattered thoughts,
slows the passing shadows.
You struggled mightily,
slowly vanishing,
leaving tracks behind
to be noticed,
and marked.
Notes should be sent,
words selected to condense
a life on a single page.
I wish I had known you better,
had stretched harder to 
bridge distance and time.
Now I dream of you and me,
young, blonde and happy.

Fresh snow becomes a canvas,
your life written during the
edges of the day.
Tracks weave through
the woods,
hunting.
I am intrigued by you, the 
double edged sword of 
your existence in a world
we have claimed.
Rarely are you seen,
shadows crossing an open field
through the waves of snow,
the crystalline night measured
by your calling.
Your devastation raises ire
and prompts falling tears.
The warmth of wool 
tinged with blood,
heartbeats stilled and
flesh left to decay.
I implore you to remain
hidden in the wild,
to live as you did before
we arrived, 
hunting hare and deer
through the wooded meadows.
Yet as a coin has two sides,
you live a life of chance,
and that may be your demise.

Today there is an edge,
the sense of timelessness
overcome by a rush 
to judgement.
Any idea of who you are
that has not joined one
side or the other
is cut down and crushed
by the dichotomy of
decision.
We have left very little
room for the courage to
question and listen,
the searching of souls
with our eyes closed 
and our minds open
and kind.
The richness of life is
squeezed by ‘one way or
the other’.
I cannot fit who I am 
and what I have lived 
into the heated arena 
of contest, 
so I mark my boxes,
walk in the pungent woods,
and pray.

Fragments of poetry float through
my mind,
singular and unconnected.
Darkness will string them together,
a firefly minuet,
organized, choreographed
twinkling in the night sky.
A rising sun reveals its resilience.
Pen to paper unmasks
the fickleness of memory,
how wishes and dreams
linger and sway in the light of day,
making us whole and
spritual.

August is a good month.
Fields are filled with 
grain and farmers,
sleek, languid cows
watch with disinterest
the frenzy
that will keep them 
alive through the 
driving snow.
Life has begun its
annual turning over,
that suspended existence
between seasons of
drama and intensity.
Souls, too, are unsettled,
in that sort of discontent
that has no source or
purpose other than
to prepare to sustain
all that is already here.

We set the bar low,
a high jump challenge,
not limbo.  
Memories of our own
childhood are streaming
through our minds today,
secretive trips to the store,
collecting coins from each other,
spilling them at the register with
hopes we counted right,
and they are enough.
To not be on the receiving side,
after years of selflessness has 
us spinning. 
To be non-existent in a world
where social media
crowns almost everyone
leaves life hollow.
Maybe the echoes are only 
in my head,
but the flatline you sent
spins in my gut.

I see your face on TV,
chocolate skin, 
with dark eyes
filled with loss,
anger, 
and loneliness,
framed by shiny
black hair that 
reminds me of doodling.
I will never meet you,
a fact that spawns
regret and relief
all at once.
What would I say?
I understand?
I’m sorry?
Legislated relationships
don’t last.
To each other 
we will likely remain
a face on TV,
blended with other faces,
becoming a crowd,
and lost to each other.

Suspension extends 
as far as my mind can know.
A sleek and sliver thing,
it hovers near days
passing from one into 
another,
a question posed
and never answered.
Things are sliding now,
following one upon another
into territory unknown,
a space left untamed and
perilous.
Who we are pivots
on not what happens next,
but what we do next.
Grace may win the day,
or we may resort to base
and strategic instinct.
I am left suspended.