“Of course”

She paints a lovely picture
But the story has a twist-
Her paintbrush is a razor blade,
The canvas is her wrist.

Still, her strokes are brushed
With love
That lifts me from
The frey:
Eyes of winter’s
Swiftest storm
That speeds my heart’s delay.

Flax-golden hair of
Autumns light,
Steeped in summers silver
Her heart is whole
And infinite
But still I long to fill her.

Greatest in her hearts
embrace
Is not of skin or hair-
It lies behind her inner eyes
Her spirits warmth
and care.

I wish that I could
fan those flames
And stand guard, fireside…

To hold her in the coldest dark
And lie with her tonight.

* * *

“… and then he fell.”

transparent-flowers:

please stop shooting wildlife as a sport

I want the words to wander
from my heart,
to get lost in every crease,
in every ever - deeper fold,
of that gorgeous mind…

That home you built
to house your secrets,
to hold your strengths,
to halt your fears-
A place where few have entered.

Here I often spend my time,
writing on your rain-worn step,
that
-front porch step-
to wonder what’s inside…

-What lies behind the veil?-

I love the quiet,
sweetest silence,
but I want to know the storm.

That boldest tempest,
tangling my lines,
strips my words
to feeling -

letters torn asunder
and borne away on the winds of change
to touch the deepest currents
of your mystery-
but they need not shift for me…

Biding minutes,
whiling days,
Till my words come knocking once again,

I sigh
and long to kiss you,
Lovely Dreamer.
***