Listen

Her fragile heart speaks

the language of the smallest bird, snowflakes
and (sometimes) whispers.

There are no secrets; only shadows 

that nest in high trees and search
the clouds for
openings
of gentle light: a hearkening

for songs of flight.

Stay

Rain in January
makes me want you.
As does
the glass of red wine in
my hand,
the half-read book on
my lap,
the memory of
my fingers
finding your lips and
needing to stay.

Witness

She saw herself
as a witness - a presence
requisite to truth
located in the
center of the edge,  underneath
the surface in the discourse of
the everywhere.

If you could see as she did,
what might you testify?

The starling, fallen on
on a cold city sidewalk has
a story - not told
by wing -
not told by song.

The heart still beats
even if not in this world.
Can you hear it?

There is: a poem

There is: a truth
A soft truth
A beautiful truth
Of trees
And sky
And gently falling snow
And early morning “I love you’s”
And endless possibilities

There is: a truth
A hard truth
Of loss
And anguish
And violence
And regret
And children
Taken too soon from this earth

There is: a truth
An incomprehensible truth
Of clenched fists
Pounding on aching hearts
And wide open arms
Embracing the whole
Reconciling the truth: there is.