
sometimes i hear
your fluttering wings
whisper beside
the rising fog

sometimes i hear
your fluttering wings
whisper beside
the rising fog

the years appear to pass slowly when we are very young
and as we age, their pace quickens,
chunks of time float like icebergs,
melting into cold grey waters,
sailing gracefully and not so gracefully
one at a time–
as brittle petals fly into the late evening breeze,
toward the setting sun of autumn

she lay her thoughts aside,
like a chapter at rest in an open book–
spine cracked,
pages dog-eared,
passages underlined and memorized–
shadows of a haunted epilogue

“They’ve never stopped telling me I’m inconsistent. They couldn’t have said anything more flattering.” –Edouard Manet

The Samurai’s Garden by Gail Tsukiyama
candles that smell like apples
chocolate brioche
sleeping with the windows open
Gold Dust by Tori Amos
peppermint tea
long streaks of sun
a room of mannequins
yellow crysanthemums
three butterflies
a canadian dime
artful trivets
warm pumpkin soup
the kindness of strangers


i wanted to run my hand across the grain,
lay my head on your cool metal,
and will centuries of secrets straight into my pulsing heart

our eyes travel along the edges of your rolling hills,
across soft, emerald fields,
alongside small homesteads filled with golden,
straw-colored dreams and clear streams of enchanted river songs

in her blindness,
it was the bright sounds
and the faithful shadows
that would guide her restless soul

cover me lightly with a soft and airy touch,
and i will grow strong and solid in the restful shade

a grasshopper visits an orange zinnia,
whispering softly to each other–
each, leaving its impression upon the other