Early Morning Write Haiku

Let the words spill out
of your fingers as your mind
still teeters in dream.

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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.

Old Wound

I dreamed last night
about a little girl,
she was my daughter,
but by the end
of course,
she was me.

In my dream,
my mother –
she and I
trade chairs
so that I am sitting closest
to the little girl.

The man is on the stand.
This is the time
to put him away.

I hold
the blond girl’s hands and she
holds mine and this time,
I am the one asking the questions.

Yes and yes and yes, she says
through the tears
and the nodding.

Those tears,
already on my pillow
in the dark.

Sorrow
cracks me open
in the dark house,
alone.

Perhaps it is about innocence,
or the body’s cellular longing
for resolution,
or maybe
it’s about how we
give pieces of ourselves,
and how others
take them away,
and how thirty-three years later,
in the dark hours before the sunrise,
we are still allowed
to want them back.

First Time Since

Standing in your kitchen
between towers of boxes
that overflow with a lifetime

of belongings, I cannot move
forward or backward
and Michael

sits bewildered on a barstool,
elbow resting
on the counter.

We do not
know how
to begin.

And you walk toward us then,
young and tan, shirtless
and smiling. From behind you

Michael looks at me,
raises his fist and mouths the words
muy fuerte,

and we understand
that the way you looked at the very end
was actually

the dream.  When I wake
the pillow is already
wet with tears.

El Sueño

In the hours between
the rooster and the dog,
where the round rock

balances impossibly,
the Mexican Buddha
watches the horizon,

unwavering in the shadow
of the white breasted
frigate.  Still-winged

raven etches black
circles on the salty mist
and is also tattooed

across the back
of the Buddha. 
Heron bones swivel

pale feathers and foam
along surf’s edge calling
silently, burn bright

and return to the sea.