as day creeps
to a close,
father time sheds
his skin
to reveal all
along
a slave to him
i have been.
abstract
it wasn’t the storm
behind your
eyes
but
the calm
that
disarmed,
keeping ships
from harm.
it was in feeling
your skin
brush
mine
i knew we were cut
from the same
cloth
sewn up in
different patterns,
to be admired in
youthful
wonder.
speak to
me
of tender times
in spell that
has no
end
and forsake the hex
of shadows
upon dear wary
friends.
trickling of a
raindrop
down the courtyard
wall
leaves a trail
so slick
it reminds us we
still linger
here,
our forms still
pressed to
brick.
i mixed
messages
till none were lucid
enough to
read
for a mind that never
memorized
the language
of being.
i allow the
fog
of slow running
bathwater
to enfold
me
like a tongue with
sultry plans,
on a dried out
day
with no aims beyond
this soak.
come now hear
a song
of weary whispers
between
the
tips of
crystal pines
down to find us
where we
breathe
the air that shall
forgive
those of us who
grieve
this timely hymn
of beauty
for the ache
it leaves.
last leaf on
a tree,
the last to shun
its destiny
of touching
down..
of kissing
ground..
of accepting what
shall be.
noon’s brisk air
beckons–
yet, i dig in
deeper
sinking myself
further..
to be forgotten
by december.
hands in the garden 
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