Expressive Domain

Cuttings

The day heats
my garden green,
overgrown to limpness,
mocking my bow
to God
who must find time
between listening
to my prayers
to rain upon my flowers.

Flowers wither
as my needs grow,
footprints hard in dusty dirt,
walking away
before the sun.

No Key

Doors are two faced,
entrances or exits,
depending on which way you walk.

To the amateur ear it is the same,
the resonance of the door’s shuttings
with our comings and goings,
countless times over all these years,
but it slams today
with a reverberating sound.

It echoes the finality of your
untrained,
unqualified,
inexperienced,
professional opinion
that our relationship is closed.

Thank God,
I finally listened.

Thank God,
you finally walked.

Walking Across Cut Glass

I kicked my shoes off while walking along the sand
and my weight sinks me into summer
where warm crystals slide through my toes
as each step takes me closer to the water’s edge.

But after a few steps the heat becomes unbearable
and I must run to the relief of the crashing waves
where wetness changes the texture of the sand
and it becomes a firmer place to contemplate.

Here at the morphing edge I feel myself slowing
allowing me to see the accumulation of my days,
where I must look to find forgiveness
like broken glass smoothed by time and waves.

Eventually the sun must slip away to sleep
and I must follow its wisdom and walk home,
but moisture clings the sand to my feet
and holds on tight so we heal together.

The Cookie Cracked

The cookie cracked to expose my fortune:

Life is no accident.

So it must have been providence
that changed us both from thin to fat.

If that is so, we can’t be blamed for
those sneaky pounds that crawled up our ankles
to hide among our thighs.

If our waists were rolled like dice
by some higher power,
our destinies are pre-determined.

So if you need me to predict
what is next for us in life,
we need a divine intervention,
because we’re fat out of luck,

and cookies.

The Time Between

Sometimes it’s hard
not to succumb to the bottle
of white wine atop the refrigerator
when my child is sleeping
and I alone am walking
back and forth
unsure then sure
back and forth
waiting.

Shadows of my pacing
are rippling through the blinds
to the street outside
where the night
is quiet and deep
and empty as my arms
elbow holding elbow
uncrossed then crossed
elbow holding elbow
waiting.

It takes a strong inhale
pulled by some hidden thread
out of my stomach
and up through my lungs
to utter a sigh
back and forth
not breathing then breathing
back and forth
waiting.

My skeptical eyes to the blinds
to the bottle
to the streets
so black
waiting.