Tonight, you might
be young
on the darkened

porch alone,
and yet
so very

not alone,
as the wind
rises softly

from the west.
By the scarcity
of pinpricks,

you sense
that clouds
are moving

across the stars,
for the night
is full of change

and the quiet rustle
of leaves on the brink
of letting go.


This is your magnum opus –
not poem, nor script,
nor perfect photograph.

There is no road,
no denouement. You will not
know more

than you once did,
nor less. Lift your wide eyes.
See the electric sky

in all of its broken
blueness. Watch
the hanging leaves

turn green to yellow
to brown. See your reflection
in still water,

and observe the candle
burn to nothing. Smell
fresh basil

and peaches. Feel
your bare feet press
into wet earth. Breathe

morning deep
into your nose.
Taste the air. Touch

the dirt. Lie down
in the grass. Love.

Love some more.
This is
our magnum opus.

Night Rain

Beneath the rare continuity
of water droplets on
the midnight roof, wakefulness

is a blessing. The leaves
have just begun their change,
and in the nighttime rain,

your soft bodies move closer
toward a center that,
for tonight,

is me. I lie awake
and wonder at the years
that might remain

of this particular sensation,
under a rolling sky
that plays the sweet music 

of the flood, while we dreamers
careen toward the inevitable
morning light.