Finding Home

They still drift to you   These thoughts Like paper boats Or airplanes Or feathers from My writing quill Such as this. When the wind Lifts leaves Off the ground Or from where they Belong in branches Of silent trees Letting them seem Weightless for a time Until it lands on a Patch of earth Next to your feet.

The back of  one's hand one's palm  kneading mine The graze made on The right side Corner of  My spine against  my better sensibilities One cradling  the back of my feet As if they were my heart How could I forget? And yet why do I feel like I'm a  business deal something one knows all too well Like secret sonnets of past loves memorized eyes wide shut Unspoken Truths Like Scars and veins that protrude and that which I know too well Like the back Of my hand. 

Some stories will  Stay that way. There is no beauty in finality. The pen shouldn't have to be thrown away. Words don't have to run out.   As if they ever will.  "I will have  Poetry in my life."   You just have to pick just one   piece of memory that particular fragment that stoked the embers of what was once called fire.  That pinpoint of a Life where  You allowed yourself to break, crack heal, become  beautiful, alive. "...and love..." If I were to choose  between  happy endings and  open ones, "...and adventure." Eternally unfinished is where I want  to be.

                Shall I love you like I love the sunrise Embracing all that Breathe life? Or As I do with sunsets Letting go of all That ends must end One way or the other? Or Should I love you as I love both? With its fickle moods Transforming by the hour, Minute and second Even nanosecond? One, or the latter I cannot choose How could I? As if it is life And death when Even death is a friend. Tell me, How should I love you then?    

Come see what I see.  Leaves that turn into blades  piercing the skies full of air,  knocking the wind off my lungs  until all that is left  is the piercing  which is only nothing  and everything.

Awake at midnight And yet there is no night Only the middle of nowhere Grasping air Questioning the dark, Berating the silence, "How can you put Your faith in something So deciduous, So ephemeral, so human?"

9-21-13 A weaving of Half taken breaths Hurried, urgent Deep, resonant Slow, deliberate Tasting the sun Or the wind if you will Filling the lungs With air but better To immortalize youth To feel life Running through Your veins To hear the beast That's your heart Pulsate To weep as eyes need When they're full Of everything To hold another When words Fall short... To kiss.