The silence of a winter morning,
the serpentine smoke curls into
the icy sky and falls again, held
close to the ground by the grip of
cold that I keep held at bay as the
fire warms each part of me...shadows
cast as I rock in slow rhythm to the
thoughts of you.

How is it, that one can be so moved,
yet remain so transfixed upon the sound
of a voice they have yet to hear...that
nothing else can enter the silence.

Am I foolish in my thoughts, that I imagine
your golden strands of hair, turned amber
by the light of fire, and eyes glistening,
that I imagine your thoughts turning toward me,
as I whisper...

breaking my slow rhythm of rocking just
long enough to turn towards you and smile,

did you hear me...when I whispered, I could
hardly speak loud enough for fear of finding
the silence was only in my mind, and you...
you, becoming a shadow upon my heart, lonely
as I am on this cold, quiet, winter morning.

living will always contain the possibility of tears,

as the sky will always contain the possibility of a
cloud...the earth with it's rhythm of storms and calm.
the pulse of nature,

and a vine seeks to climb broken branches
and tendrils winding in symbiotic motion
seek the sun...

are we no different than to seek the sun...

as we climb our way through the thickets
and limbs of tree, always up, and a moment
of respite catches us,
and for a time we stop...listening in earnest
for the sound of the next storm.
horizons casting long shadows from behind...

and the wind carries us forward as we turn
our attentions to tomorrow.

tomorrow...with it's possibility
of tears...learns to live now, as

we seek the treetops of sun.

In a winter rain,

a walk...through fields towards the woods.

Looking up, catching drops on my tongue,
trading tears of mourning for raindrops in blue eyes.

Looking down...
there, at the edge of wood, sleeping deer.

I tried to lay with them, quietly approaching,

pretending one was the fawn I see when I read you.

They awoke...and ran.
Ran into the undergrowth.

I stepped further into the edge of wood,
beneath a canopy of winter oak and maple.
I stopped and sat on winter leaf...leathery, moist,
leaning back against the rough bark of tree.

In sudden sound of voice...I listened...
hard, intently...to the faint incarnation
of something transformed, a pulse, a whisper.

I heard the breath of deer...

weave me within your circle
the sound of 'never before heard',

share the grief within a smile
and tell me your story.

I will lose this furrowed brow,
and trade my grief for a mossy seat

and rest these feet for a while.

On the worst of nights,
I've plucked feathers
from the wings of angels,

quietly, with the ignorance
of my disbelief,
to see if they would fit,
glueless, stitchless,
soft with the sheen of satin,
looking for some manner of
brilliance in the dark.

But it is always the same...postured,
cloaked in the nakedness of emotion,
I build a little prison instead...I'm safe.

I pace,
four forward, four back,
four forward, four back,
waiting...worrying...

just when will that angel return
in request of it's feathers,

I polish them, I preen them.

On the best of nights,
I am by your side...
there is the scent of your hair,
my face is close to yours,
to touch cheek and listen to
you breathe...watching the rise
and fall of breast with each breath,
feeling a pulse course through your neck
to reach places that were not intended for me,
but that I dream of anyway.

I do not think of angel feathers,
but of the travel across the map of your soul,
your spirit, the heartbeat that has the sound
of music...an ancient instrument of creation.

To touch what was once pain, and fly upon it's pleasure.