A winter ago…

A breath of life
Nudged the Barents,
As a mother would
Her child.

So I was lifted,
Gently,
Waiting for the sun,
As the sky swelled
With a foreign light.

I thought of you
Where I would
Think of myself…

The sound of light
Was enough,
As winter
Traced her nails
Across my face,
Burning whispers
Layed gently
Upon my skin,
To remind me
This
Was
The taste
Of you.






Daydream

We are
Consumed by the wind,
As the autumn leaves
That leap from the hillsides.

So we write,
With our darkest ink,
Passages in the sky…
Letting our afterthoughts
Mingle in the gardens
Of heaven
Like careless birds
In early spring.

…testing the emptiness
Of existence,
We listen through the silence
For Grace.

And she says,

“Wake up…”

With the tap of morning dew
Upon my ear.

 

Morning Dew

All that has left

All that has left
So silently,
Wanders among weeds,
Savors sweat as wine
And carnal company…

What of the eastern sun
Which never sets?
What of the whispered tongue
Upon a lovers lips?

All that has left,
Parted with the wind,
And the warmth beneath
The dearest wing.

Sing…
Sing…
Sing…
What of the eastern sun
Which never sets?
What of the whispered tongue
Upon a lovers lips?

I know love
Lets no wicked rest.
And I know grace
Weighs heavy
Upon my chest.