Day 23
I wonder if the beams from streetlights singe your fine needles, exhaust you, if only true dark can heal you
I wonder if the beams from streetlights singe your fine needles, exhaust you, if only true dark can heal you
rushing her work, damp snow plunges through night air, knowing full well her fate is to dissolve and river-away come …
when you tell of youth, and risk, and being bold, you do not reveal the cloister in your heart — …
is it a god or a black cat that crosses my path in these woods? am I cursed, sainted, lost, …
that dark corner may recall years past as it sighs – drowsy, in a haze – that I was here …
gray tree branches hover over dried-damp grass – last year’s growth – chimes ting on the steady breeze remind us …
I specialize in making other people’s dreams come true because tending to my own stings, asks too much of heaven
how many times have I walked through a drizzle- dreary day like this — ice floes across pavement slip me …
Wouldn’t daffodils stay wrapped in their green shells, hands hiding their eyes, and inhale back into earth if it were …
I thought I had ripped that vine down dead, but it grows on, out of reach, even in winter, mocking …