Said the Rain

Said the rain outside my window
as it tumbled to the ground
won’t you lend me a hand
can’t you hold me up?
I’m falling like Niagara
past these cusps of clouds
sifting through the sky
like birds or butterflies
If you could take my hand
would you hold it?
where would you lead me?
or would you let go
let the damp spots dry
and lay in the sun
instead of playing
in the rain
like children


A Walk in the Woods

Inspired by this article.

I’m in the midst of a bright forest, golden beams of sunlight falling through translucent green leaves. A breeze blows the scent of pine and fresh river water. I’m walking hand in hand with my fiance. We stumble across a small squirrel in the path, nibbling at an acorn. It looks up at us, its fur perfectly bristled and vibrant in the sunlight on the forest floor. For a moment our eyes meet, animal and man, and then with a squeak it rushes into the woods.

For a moment there is silence again and we keep walking, smiling as we go.

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a remembrance of things past

Sometimes I remember
what it was like to smile
to feel the sunlight on my skin
that warmth, was it your hand
on mine that made me simmer
inside, made the worms create
cocoons to emerge as butterflies

Sometimes I remember
how it felt to feel the rain
splatter on my lips, quench
the thirst of arid summers
feel the specks of sand
clump between my toes
like a second flesh, to see
rainbows cut across the sky
a tapestry of endless colors

Sometimes I remember
the echoes of your voice
and mine, that laughter
after a well-told joke
a casual smile, splashing
rain, was it your laughter
from the lungs, from the stomach
to my unbeating, broken heart

Green Halls

Green. Fresh like new leaves or cut grass
absent of the vile jealousy and greed
that color money in my pocket. Green
like mint ice cream and watermelons
plump from the summer sun. Green
welcomes me as we enter past the mirror door
faceted of my reflection, barred in brass
flanked by tiles below and an alter above:
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Outside My Window

The tree across the street was once lush and full of vibrant leaves
that rattled in the wind, shushing the cars on the black asphalt
between us. Once in a few winters, white snow would collect on its branches
and in spring storms, small limbs would litter the grass-covered hill
beneath it. Last year it stood tall and plump like cotton candy
brown boughs reaching out like wisps of pink sugar and just as sweet
until lightning or wood cutters or landscapers, I have no idea
cut off half its branches and left it a lopsided sentry
that I stare at every day. If I open my hand, fingers flared wide
then tuck away my forefinger and thumb, I can cover the tree
so only the skies remain jutted against old brick houses
with dark roofs, a metal fence running into the horizon
and blankets of fraying grass from one telephone poll to the next.
Once the tree was just a tree and I hardly noticed it
but now it stands out, an anomaly, broken, half-whole
unusual. A blemish on the block. But if I raise my other hand
and instead cover the missing piece, the image appears whole again
one half now assumed arm in arm with the other. We’re not so different
this tree and me: we’re only half here, half standing, half living
something missing, an illusion entirely real, separated one body from another
hidden out of sight and left yearning for our inevitable reunion.