it is early evening and
a drink has found its way
into her hand while a
heaviness settles
inside her heart

her feet hit the hot concrete
of a texas back patio
warmly, they wander across
lightly, they fall in a pattern
leading to an edge

she settles herself there and
the moon looks down
upon her quietly
showing her
only half of himself

she ponders the idea
of seeing only part
of someone
and wondering what else
might be there

the day has slipped away
as quickly and blindly
as usual, leaving behind
only the memory
of how hot it was

the sky tells her to look
it wants to remind her
that the day was bright and strong
by painting the edges
of her world

the streaks of a sunset
almost gone and forgotten
linger on the horizon
in blue, orange, purple
and gold

she wants to soak those in
remember them, cherish them
she wants to capture them
and carry them with her for
later

she knows that darkness approaches.

those grey skies just can’t have me anymore
it’s been so long since I
ran in the sun -
thinking I was trapped in the storm,
no chance to be warm.

but suddenly I’ve realized
there’s nothing holding me there
no chains, no ropes, no cage I’m in -
the door wide, I’ll cross the threshold,
out of the cold.

those grey skies just can’t have me anymore
for years they’ve tortured me -
held me close, whispered dark lies,
covered my eyes.

now they’re open and I see
a sun shining just for me -
no thunder here, no whipping rain
just warmth for miles,
waiting smiles.

warmth for miles

it’s for the taking
and I’m game.

I’m game.

wind chimes usually soft and melodious
sing out furiously, keeping time with the
stinging breath of a riling wind

while goosebumps break the skin
unprotected by sleeves of any kind tonight
a chin tilts skyward; hair whips madly

clouds up above that might otherwise linger
on a warmer, more lazy night
rush by overheard now

hurry hurry hurry
the wind is chasing at them
biting their heels, anxiously

lips part in a lack of self awareness
arms hang at sides, uselessly
eyes widen, taking it in, lost in the clouds

they seem to cover the sky
but for spaces of black ink in patches
large and small, leaked from some large well

and puffy thick here, thin and wan there
they flow, flit, fly by
racing past the moon

the orb burns bright and wide and round
and doesn’t flinch as each band of cloud
stretches and gallops before it

the glowing eye, stoic and almost aware
instead creates an explosion of color, a rainbow
bursting from nowhere, everywhere, right there on each cloud

lips purse and eyes narrow
then the mouth bends in a crooked smile
gears spin in my mind as my right brow arches

oh to be like the moon -
to brightly color and then chase away
all the fluff that dares to come between you and me.

it’s a flower that
drops its petals
far too quickly

you look around you
and they are scattered
like the pieces of your soul

changes explode all around
milestones rip past you
things you try to cling to are lost
others are found, unexpectedly

nostalgia will mock
serendipity can tease

the man holding the hourglass
has a snide grin
a cruel, jagged laugh

we all struggle to make sure
the joke is not on us
but when the laughter fades,
what side of the punchline will you be on?

always, we are progressing
through the stages of life
whether we resist the movement
or just flow

time pushes your existence
along a path that isn’t paved, but
being created by your own passage

do your feet drag lines down
your path
or are there hand prints
indicating that you did
cartwheels along the way?

your life, like time
tumbles by swiftly
and often quietly
if you let it

like the life of that flower
from bud to fragrant memory.

lets
try to stop and notice
those moments when
it is in bloom
just as often as we note
the petals that fall.

it’s in every wide-eyed stare
that seems to light up
his whole face

while softening mine

it’s in the way he views lights
sweetly breathing the word,
“wowwwwwww”

my heart stops for a moment

it’s in the excited, rising
pitch in his voice as he says
“Santa” and “Cwissmas”

that puts a twinkle in my eyes

it’s in his sincere concern
when he asks me with
worry stitched across his face
“Am naughty, Santa bwing no pwesents?”

i have to stifle a laugh

it’s in the mirth with which he replies
“That’s wight! If I good, Santa bwings
pwesents! on CWISSMASSSS!”
when i remind him there’s still
hope

i love him no matter how naughty he is

it’s in the way i can feel the joy
as he does because he
reminds me how to

i have a reason to let go and smile

he runs the years back
on my rusty clock
just by being himself

the ultimate gift in life

he is wonder and light
and i am grateful.