Déjà vu

You will know this poem
because it was born within you,
The vase is your vase:

The roses and baby’s breath
belong to you. The sigh
at such beauty

is your sigh. The tears
that fall with the petals
are your tears.

The Spring that bred them
is your season of showers
and sun.

These words are your words.
Only the arrangement is mine
and that is a tenuous thing.

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The Temple of Stilled Time

Mahogany and brass,
the hands long stilled
and yet
it’s right twice a day.

Reliable,
it reminds of times
grown as hazy as the faces
in those faded photographs.

Kaleidoscopic moments
shimmer like smiles.
Dried twigs bloom again.
The legacy lives.

I Knew You Better After Your Inheritance

written after reading An Inheritance
a short story by Craig Kirchner

 

You claimed the clock,
the one that hadn’t run
for as long as her mind
hadn’t,

You tucked it under your arm
and ran
away from the pain
that followed you like a stray cat

sniffing the cream
in your coffee,
or the scent of Sunday
yellow in the snow.

You only knew
you had to go
before your head
exploded

or the last rust colored leaf
rasped its way to dust
in the vase
on the table that you didn’t take.

Interval

the polar vortex trails slowly
into defeat,
new born buds
wait for one warm day to bloom

no limbo this temporary pause
pent with energy

each new leaf bears the promise
of a bountiful harvest,
each bird song
a hymn afloat on the breeze

Sawgrass and Sand

The sea is a sacred basin,
even when breached
by tsunami.

I tremble
at the edge of the world,
waves wash over the rim.

Metamorphic and silicate
glisten a patience of tears
and honey-eyed dreams.

The moon slips under the surface.
In the mist of stardust
and dawn

fingertips touch
on this walk through sawgrass
and sand.