| More Poetry |
[Apr. 9th, 2009|11:32 am] |
Awake, next to you, again,
I watch the ceiling chase shadows
and try not to focus on your heavy
breathing or the salt-snail tracks
that my tears are making
down the side of my face and
into my hair.
The same tracks that you might find, later,
when you try to kiss my cheek or
bury your nose into this pillow.
You might smell them, then, hours after,
the sharp unexpected drops mixed in with
everything familiar and realize that
even when we're happy, I'll
keep this memory. |
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| April's Semi-Sonnet |
[Apr. 6th, 2009|03:34 pm] |
I know that spring is coming closer,
The moss creeps back between the stones,
I feel your breath upon my features,
The wrens leave me to make new homes.
I wish I could be feathered like them,
I wish I crept like moss on stones,
I wish I came to you like springtime,
With light and rain inside your bones.
I know I come both soft and silent,
And you have said, with bird-like grace,
I can be slick and green like mosses,
And yet, no fervor in your face.
My light is weak like milky winter,
My rain grows fungus; freezes cold,
I see the distance in your hipbones,
Because your seeds have gone to mold.
Plenty sown but nothing growing,
Only life is fit for mowing. |
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