Sunday, September 29, 2013

Here, where no leaves fall




Here, where no leaves fall
D. Ficklin

Were I not here, where no leaves fall
I would chase them as they did
And pick them up
And trace the lines of their veins
Each one a sketch of their parent tree
My handfuls a forest
A bouquet of orange and yellow and red
For you to toss back to the wind

In my dreams you do
And I breathe the heady scent of the woods
And the wind
And each footfall is an exclamation point
And we walk, scarf-entangled
And though the air is cool
Our hands and eyes are warm

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Sunrise

So far
I have watched every sunrise this week
and,
without fail,
you were in each one.

Whether in the sun, or the clouds,
or the horizon, I cannot say,
only that you were.

Which is odd,
as a sunrise
Is perhaps the only thing that We
(together, you and I)
never shared.

And so
every sunrise this week
and every sunrise
every sunrise
holds you
while I, only seeing, do not.