Comfort

I hope it gives you comfort,
Because it did not comfort me.
I hope it brings you solace
Although it did not bring me peace.
And I don’t know if I’m speaking
Of the ideal, or my own words—
Because I’m numb and dumb
And all my thoughts are
Worthless and unheard.

October 2019

Quilted Patchwork

The forest is quilted patchwork
and I am a needle drawing thread
along its paths and streams
leaving slender thoughts behind:
images in a human mind, not more.
We lay the blanket on a guest bed
to long survive what made this day:
the youth of sons, sprinting in Fall,
a patch of speckled trees and even
the hemming calm of a still afternoon.
Already these things have changed,
have begun to disappear; the quilt
lays upon a little-used bed, upstairs
in a room my mind will stumble upon,
some years hence, with unexpected joy.

October 2019

Sidewalk Tattoos

We remark, but seldom photograph Fall
because we assume she will return.
One year we will be mistaken
and we, or Earth, or Fall will end.
The sidewalk tattoos of leaves
remind me of impermanence: mine,
yours, and that of trees; and yet
the marks we make remain, bleeding
shadows on tomorrow’s steps.







October 2019

It gets better

It isn’t perfect, but close
and like afternoon in the fall
full of hope and promise;
then, as if to shame us,
to defeat our expectations—
it gets better, leaving us
with nothing but a smile
and the warmth of a love
from somewhere unreachable.

October 2019

This will not always be here

Sit in the room
feel its energy
its still, silent motion.
This will not always
be here. Not only
for you; for anyone.
The spaces we create
are impermanent,
and their brevity in time
gives them value.
Drink it in; accept it,
and let this moment
be what it will be:
now, and someday
only in memory.








October 2019