empty

Lord, my hands are empty.

My heart murmurs echoes
of what my mind denies.

I come to receive your will,

to oppose my own

in confusion & release:

lead me well.

time circles

I wish that time

and seasons

were not static--

that I could wake up

one day to fall
the next to spring,

that my body

did not age
in a straight line
sinking down,

and that watches

did not tick
in circles.

we are the same

You whispered across

dandelion aisles

during summer's first June.

I could not hear your muffled phrases,

lost in the floating seeds

between your breath.

One seed stuck to the stem,

& you flicked it off

to join the others.

"Just needed a little boost,"

you smiled, know that seed was you,

waiting for your own 'little boost.' 

being there

with your hand on my shoulder
and my hands on my face,
would you stay and be
the warmth on the outside:
the heat map red, only you.

with my wordless sobs
and your small sentences,
would you tell me what it's like
to know extended happiness:
a robin's song each morning.

with your thousand-mile distance
and my reluctance to leave,
would you reach out to me;
call me to yourself:
a child returning to her mother.

to belong

I built myself a fort

of books & journals.

The outside wind beckoned

deep, but my shivering skin

whispered deeper within.

Today, I belong here.

season

Every season reaches completion.

It’s a fading from one to the next;

I’m not sure exactly when

the change will happen. Maybe

it already has. Or maybe

it will remain

in the background

like rain clouds in summer

of the squeak of a porch swing

when no one is around.

truth

I've recently realized
that I've been wrong
about most everything
up until this point.

These may just be
my truest words.