Here. Now.
Here. Now.
In the shade
of mountains
I hide away—
bathing in silence
washing in peace.
Here. Now.
Ancient sapience
drifts in the wind,
“the present
vanishes
the second
it begins.”
Here. Now.
Primal advisors
urge I practice
the love of
letting go;
I understand
this to begin
with you.
Here.
Now.
unrequited
Meticulously I consider
the placement of
these fragile, little letters
precariously perched
upon delicate,
slightly unsteady serifs.
Diligently deliberating
the most effective
configuration–
the most capable
combination–to convey
this quiver in my bones,
this shudder in my lungs,
the sound of a heart breaking.
Picking through the
shattered pieces,
these tiny fragments
of mine, i find
a comma shaped splinter.
Perhaps it belongs here
,
a tiny pause,
a shallow breath,
a metaphor for
you.
Possibly it better serves
lingering like an apostrophe,
an indication of possession,
manifestation of a merging,
which,
we are not.
On second thought,
how does one
effectually punctuate
absence of affection,
the reticence in rejection,
unrequited love?
Yes, of course,
the self-effacing ellipsis
soundlessly signifying:
lack of substance…
the weight of hanging space…
and words I’ll never say
…
Of Men and Moons
Only a sliver
is visible tonight,
the balance
cloaked in shadow
and dark truth.
Yet I tell you,
you’re lovely this way:
clad in contradiction,
draped in shade;
a lucent slice
tracing clouds
in silver ice.
Grace & the Ephemeral Embrace
“Keep your feet on the ground my child”
“Impossible”, I say. “I live in the stars.”
Midnight dips in the milky way
bathing in ancient light.
I’ve felt Draco’s fire,
I’ve loosened Orion’s belt.
I can’t know its significance,
its measure or its weight.
Yet atoms split
particles crash and a
universe expands nonetheless.
“Be cautious with your heart my child”
“impossible”, I say. “I wear them on my sleeve.”
A believer. A mystic –
in the oldest form of alchemy.
Rudimentary chemistry and
paradigm shift.
I can’t know its significance,
its measure or its weight
yet electrons vibrate,
elements attract, and
matter is shaped.
“Keep yourself guarded my child.”
“impossible”, I say, “to ever be prepared.”
A moment is upon us
then gone in a breath.
That ephemeral embrace
leaves its mark, nonetheless.
I can’t know its significance
its measure or its weight
Call it chance, or call it fate
either way –
I stretch to brush the skirts of grace.