cusp

the story told of typewriters
click-clack talking back
that echo lingers in my head
as if some turnkey stood there
mending stories thread
words pressed out upon a white page
embedded promises to wildness made
raising gaze to break of day
i slip from sombre thoughts to pray
to sun and blue and unseen things
to bark and bone and
spring 

hand fast

We
are of this field
gathered wheat & moonstone
cloaked in the sombre sky of winter rain
separated by design
by desire cooled to rye whiskey
the crimson thread thin as sinew
tender not
merely silent
merely sure
resilient to wind & weather
tucked within that hollow space between bone & solitude
now resides the mirth of tiny souls trusted
held fast to the lines we've drawn of ourselves
for ourselves
of ochre & ash
wild wonderers
where one leaves off ... another begins
thick histories of pages wrinkled
circling
dancing
tethered to this field
this life
this
golden gather

hold fast

of a room

Strawberry carpet
ceiling & floor
cupcake afternoon
pain ignored
cinnamon memory tucked into bed
sugarplum erotica lives in my head
taste of moonbeams
suffering sure
smell of snowfall
distant vapor
snow heralds forgiveness
sugar-light dusting blue reflecting
stars talk in languages tempered by time
understood in pulses & rhymes
seams too tight
skin alight
ruched sorrow felt in waves white
pressed between ancient panes of glass
this life waking

this night

stars shining

snow falling

Moon to last quarter square with the Sun

Thick
quiet
stillness here
reach
stretch
pause
snaps of cloud fall to earth
an embrace of open arms
to color the night in lost and found
moon-glow & screech owl call
pause
hold
Yes, that's right-- there

Hold there
Cut of snow
Breath of moon