Nurtured

A white light beams,

the nucleus of a just-lived past.

It is smoke swirling,

like a ghostly shape of no one.

A molten wind burns a channel through.

The passage greets the ghost and gives it name.

The walls are hands that always meet.

The womb is a relaxed fist,

an ethereal nest

protective of this flimsy life.

Bones harden with time.

One after the other,

eyes pry to see the light.

Both bloom,

and the white light 

becomes a shine from behind.

My surrogate,

I do not need you anymore.

I am standing without waver.

I am following the smoldering trail forward.

A willing pioneer,

I am walking.

Waiting for the Eclipse

Spring wastes away 

eaten by the pointed teeth

of a solstice sun.

Fall blusters in 

consuming the daylight

with the appetite of a gigantic moon.

Observing through a pin-hole,

we enjoy the muted colors 

of our pointillistic picnic; 

all the while, saying a prayer.

We speak our truth 

through allergic throats.

We ignore the pocket watch

melting in our coats.

We chase the yellow leaves

that fall into the wind.

Surely, our shadows will catch up.

Surely, the train will come to this station.

Surely, we will not go blind

by simply looking skyward.

Handiwork

For RLM

I’m inside my grandma’s hands, 

a tough old broad swirling my pen 

like she twisted her crochet hook; 

all the while, dangling 

a cigarette from her sassy mouth.

The news says aging is reversible. 

Dial back your genes 

like tuning the XM radio to the 70s station;

like pulling a loop through a magic circle.

Wear a top that shows your cleavage. 

Drink bootleg whiskey at the river.

Head-bang in a Miata. 

Refuse the 10 and 2 of the wheel.

Over time, 

ashes burn a hole inside butterfly stiches

and perpendicular actions puncture morality.

Rip out the mistakes so our stories are respectable.

Wrap the thinning skin in an afghan,

wrap the hardened spirit in a poem;

both welded by hands with blue veins popping.

In My Winter Mind

The visible wind 

has shaken loose the wrinkles

and spread her linen in my field.

No tire tracks remain; no trace left 

of the lace-tatted tears from winters past.

The skin-breaking cold never stops,

but buckles back, 

without hesitation, for a second run. 

Still, I’m out chasing snowflakes with my tongue.

Make a snowball, take a bite;

toss it back to God.

I’m stuffed and satisfied

like the cardinal who’s found the birdfeeder.

Purity tastes like a distant drop of blood.

This miniature exists

in a crystal globe of stillness.

Turn it upside down.

Reassure myself it is winter;

let ice be ice.

Put on my coat and boots.

Prepare to break the barren;

to allow for footprints.