On Waking

Wake into
the tender rearrangement
of white morning sheets,

not like these springtime
birds, all chirrup
and delicate song. This

is an altogether
quieter thing,
though no less elegant,

the way that skin
touches skin
as you linger

in the soft gauze
of dream – walking
along the cobbled lane

of a Paris dawn,
through wooden carts
of heady flowers. 

What was it
you were searching
for?  Until

the softly
humming body
wakes the mind,

and a lover’s hand
delivers you to morning
on wave after wave

of surrender, naked
and singing
in the streets of Paris.

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love letters haiku

light snow falls on grass
green with spring, I want to speak
to you of softness.

from the other room,
a song, and just the whisper
of a melody.

flightless blackbirds on
the tops of cottonwoods, a
stillness inside me.

this brightly painted
world, more beautiful because
your soul has touched it.

let your breath be the
calm around you, fill this space
with courageous love.

Island

i.
In the rainforest,
life and death
at the same time,
in various stages of
green to brown
and in between.

ii.
What is the gravity
of the white moon
on the human body?

iii.
Barefooting along
the forest path,
she describes
the information
that she gathers
through her feet.

iv.
We are water
and so
is the sea,
salty and
transient,
with false edges.

v.
Night music fills
the shadow places
of the half moon.

vi.
You pull a human skull
from the grotto. The spinal hole,
foramen magnum,
lets in the idea of sunlight
for the first time
in a century or more.

vii.
Three generations tell stories
of the things they have seen
so far. They pass the bread.
They pass the wine. Three
generations listen. They pass
the salt. They pass the water.