Walking in December - A poem

Walking in December

fingers sliding down the skin
bare branch, the lungs
expelling oxygen, carbon
dioxide, and a desire
for lush, green leaves
on every, single tree.

footprints fall fresh
in the snow, a scampering
squirrel scared by the sound
of on-coming traffic,
loud talking, and the cracking
of ice beneath the surface.

looking up now, seeing so clearly
how the sun can stand tall
in a deep, blue sky, and yet
has completely abandoned us,
so that no amount of bark
could ever cover us,
keep us from the wind.

what good is the word love
when we fail to care
for even the most simplest
of things in life? like touching
down on earth, the heel
and toes in tandem,
until the last breath is taken.

The Lotus,This World - A Poem

The Lotus, This World

There is no one here tonight,
look, if you must
to the seed-filled heart,
which opens and closes
each day,
takes in the rays
of the midnight sun.

In Hopes of Preserving - A poem

In Hope of Preserving What We Love

So much want for happiness
and yet, also, denial of it.

We approach the lips of the fuchsia
and then bend away, blushing,

because it is too close,
too fragile, we think, to be held.

Instead, we build fences around it,
place tanks and armed guards

all along the perimeter, in hope
of preserving what we love

from others we fear may come
with hazardous hands and crush it.

We do this with care, to keep
the fuchsia purple, not knowing

that what we have done is akin
to placing it in the desert,

which is where we have been
living ourselves

Eighth Birthday - A poem

Eighth Birthday

in the photograph I am leaning over,
thrusting air from my lungs
as hard as an eight year old can

even then, my arms tightly
held against my chest,
ready just in case

eighth birthday; the last
number of candles
without the feeling of absence

or maybe this is how
it has become in memory,
a single point among many

as if I had become a Seurat landscape
and everything that had once been fluid
now stood, frozen

so that the naked eye,
desperate to capture the truth,
might take it all in

even if twenty plus years
have gone by, and everything,
including the skin

that covered my little body,
has either faded
or disappeared all together.