A Bump

Two paths
met at crossroads.
“From just there in the village, I come,”
said one.
“And I from a land unknown,” the other.
So they walked side by side,
birdwatching, partners
in solidarity.
One crossed the other,
shoulders bumped, jostled.
Puddles from dark long-past storms
rippled into waves; paths parted,
veered wide for moments
for things done, and those yet left
undone.

But stormy shadows fade
as morning dawns and
vanquishes the fog.
Then paths may join again
to do the undone
or accomplish the unthinkable
as ripples give way to peace
and bubbles.

And They Danced

Your muse to my muse did beckon: come with me!
Let us dance a dance of friends. And yet our hearts
and hands but barely touched—we poised to flee
this timid waltz that moves in fits and starts.
Watching as you watch, your eyes betraying nothing,
but a glance, a glimmer, the briefest sparkles of twilight
that catch and flare beneath dark lashes, sweeping
‘cross graceful cheeks, sharp in my breast ignite
embers smoldering low, long scarcely warm.
I thought my heart had broken, but this rift
was a chamber shaped to fit your spirit’s form;
one step, contra step, and close at last we’ll drift,
fearful of rising hope as arms embrace
life offered anew, and yesterday’s erase.

Speaking in Slices

Portions of me are hid within my soul:
a wild serenity; passion couched in reflection,
beneath a weary semblance of control
there breathlessly anticipate perfection.
And in some rare sweet moments of each day
life’s rush subsides; the clamoring world is still.
With chaos hushed by evening, then I’ll say
what may be said and hungry silence fill
with precious seconds—voiceless thoughts rehearsed
to peel back layers shielding who we were.
Here lying sundered listening to the universe,
its silent realizations wake and stir.
Then minds, though sure embraced when first they met,
convergence of the heart may hope for yet.

Magic Hour, Nine Twenty-Two

I gazed skyward into strawberry-laced
whipped cream, topping an azure cup
of heaven
as I glided down a street bearing
a philosopher’s name.

Summer has flown,
but no one told the cicadas,
for they continue their evening strain,
a throbbing rhythmic hum.
Vapor condenses on my windshield;
I pass a cemetery blanketed in fog,
a quilt obscuring memory stones
of love, loss, and hope.

It is my favorite hour of the day,
this time between times.
When color bathes the world,
transforming grey into lavender and
straw into gold.

The trees are tentative this September.
Reluctant to surrender the comfort
of their finery or exchange
their garments for what must soon
be shed.

Some yellow, some bronze peeks shyly
through a canvas of green.
But round the bend, one bold silver maple
stands amidst her envious peers.
She tries on her most elegant dress—
shocking red—
as she readies herself for the dance
of autumn.

Angels

Three messengers God sent you,
as to Abraham our father,
to give you promise and a future.
They ate your food and
drank your drink,
these guests, these gifts.

So neither weary of the visit
nor laugh at the promise.
For dreams of yesterday are vapor,
condensing on a darkened glass and
creating a misshapen world,
twisting the future as
through a lens encrusted in frost.

Press your hand against the window
to wipe away the mist,
and tomorrow bursts into clarity.
Shadows once blurred bloom
in a vivid panoply of color when
you gaze past the pane.

For there may your messengers—
gifts—like frankincense, gold, and myrrh,
bow low before their Lord of glory.