It’s Not Often

In the canoe, in my heart, the dark of her curls blend with the gold of sunrise.

With water glassy we paddle, unison’s time, rhythm’s endearing.

Over her shoulder she smiles. Hope leaps. Love pains at future’s parting.

It’s not often colors blend such as these.

Mercurial silver of water. Hazel of eye. Red of lips.

It’s not often to welcome falling into depths like those below …

… when she must leave.

 

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In Fiery Splendor

sunset over the Albemarle sound

As the budding rose is to the rising sun

drawing forth in fiery splendor

so are we

As the smile of a child is to the parent’s heart

bringing forth love in all its mysterious ways

so are we

As the gull is to wave tops

endlessly seeking above crests foamy and golden at sunrise

so are we

As the oak leaf is to emerald grandeur

awaiting the final downward drift with gust and gale

so are we

As we each seek our path, yearning above all else to

lock hope away in our hearts

instead

set it free

Allow hope to bloom, to laugh, to soar

and

at the end

you will pass forth with joy and thanksgiving

filled to everlasting

All The While Settling Onto Beauty

A flickering fluttering triangle of wing and body

Colors blurring, wind carrying aloft

During the seeking

Her goal, her sole existence is to feed for growing

To lay eggs for living

To continue the cycle endlessly

Of newness

Caterpillar

Chrysalis

Oh, what life to live

Flying on current’s edge

Constantly in hazard’s way

All the while settling onto

Beauty

Of leaf and petal

Of scent and color

Kissed with dewdrops left by

The Morning.

 

I Might Imagine

I might imagine, or I might not, that love is a smile beneath a small straight nose, deep brown eyes, and dark chocolate tresses falling around my face as she sits above me.

I might imagine, or I might not, that over her head, green leaves laugh in the summer breeze, and lake waves lap whispers against round stones.

I might imagine, or I might not, a soft kiss, moist and tender, warm upon my lips, and the brush of fingertips at my brow, with words of welcome.

I might imagine, or I might not, a mountain trail, rough with stones for tripping, slow with time for talking, waterfalls crisp with splashing, and the summit for rest.

I might imagine, or I might not, two sets of footprints pressed into wet sand, hands clasped, sun overhead, and at night, stars.

But I shall not imagine, for I could imagine more that would not be imagining, for I am thankful, grateful more than I can say, reaching for her hand over twenty years hence from dreaming, and still we laugh, sigh, love.

And we imagine.

When I Died

When I died I fell face first into the snow, oh, the icy crust, the millions of tiny crystalline knives.

When I coughed my lung’s bright blood upon the blanket of white, I realized I would never see her again.

When I realized I would never see her again, I willed my heart to beat, though powerless to have it beat forever.

When my breaths slowed, stopped, and when my heart faltered, stopped, and when my eyes closed, I willed my soul to join another …

And he fell, and another, and he fell, and another, and she fell, and half-a century later I live, a mist, a memory, a dream desired, a hope unrealized.

And yet, I love, and yet, life offers me hope, if only in the most fleeting moments.

Once we lay beneath an oak. It was an ancient thing, gnarled and gray-barked, branches hanging low over the wide river, leaves twisting in the daytime breeze, whispers of young love’s yearning desire.

And natures faint aromas, the gray smell of water on the air, leaf mold and earthy hints of times past, and her hair, as if she rinsed her silky strands with morning rain captured just for her within the petals of a rose.

And at night, oh, at night, beside the fire, millions of stars, constellations, a meteor’s dim minute streak, the oak’s leaves aflutter, matching moth’s wing beats around a lantern.

The stuff of dreams, the dreams of hope, soft whispers, softer kisses, love’s final goodbye.

When I died.

So What Do You Say.

So what do you say when she says she loves you. When its what you’ve wanted to hear for so long that it seemed she didn’t know the words existed. When you’re standing there trying to swallow your surprise that you were never expecting it. Do you just stare? Do you just watch the way her nostrils flare as she waits, the delicate arch of her brows as they rise slightly, turning into question marks? Or is it that now you can’t speak, that you can barely breath, or that your throat tightens with all you’ve wanted to say for so long that it’s become a dam beneath your tongue? Or, as your eyes take in hers, the hazel coloration, the slight squint as they smile, are you lucky enough to know that you’ve both said it all.

Crash-swish.

Misshapen cotton ball clouds hang over a night time sea

lit underneath by humanity.

Stars elicit emotion, winking million-year-old light

into the eyes.

Waves crash-swish, crash-swish, earth’s eternity

turning shells to sand, emotions to dreams, hopes to love.

Chill breeze, warm hands, lips, hearts.

Crash-swish, crash-swish. …

Honeymoon Evening

She glanced at him, at his blonde curls, at his broad shoulders, his large hands.

I wonder. … What will it be like to have him slip my dress off my shoulders, letting the moonlight play along my tanned body. Will he be rough, tender, passionate, or not give a damn.

I wonder. …

He turned, gazed at her, placed his hands on her shoulders and ripped the dress down to the seam. Then he picked her up gently, carried her to the soft quilts, the blankets, the pillows, the firelight painting his jaw orange. …

In the background she could hear the river slipping by, its never ending wash against stone and tree, the slew of it in a whirl around the base of the old oak they lay under.

That’s how I feel. That’s how he makes me feel. Swirling madness, desire, hope, sadness that he’s leaving after our one night honeymoon. And in the morning I’ll die; I’ll cry a flood and the river take me.