The art that I see on the trunk of a tree
on the face of the sky
in the way the geese fly
on the feathers of crows
and the way the wind blows–
soothes my unsettled senses
reflections of the past
of the future
of the undisclosed
and indisposed
of all that you wanted
and all that you lost
of all that was honest
and all that was not
walk with me until we can’t walk anymore
talk with me until we can’t talk anymore
laugh with me until we can’t laugh anymore
be with me until we can’t be anymore
Thoughts in winter stumble with
a stop-action rhythm
both jarring and comforting.
With hard edges and delicate skeletons,
they push to the forefront of consciousness;
greedy, needy and completely camouflaged
in the light of the cold January sky.