Sparkles sound
on morning rings,
but only the cygnets
hear.
Danger lurks
between the reeds,
but only the mother
knows.
Stay safe,
stay warm,
under my wing,
gliding till day is
full.
But sparkles die
when nightfall comes,
and only the cygnets
cry.
The wind felt
warm and free
not caring that color
drained from the flowers
in the ditch
faded like the tears
that placed them
now silent
the hammering
of wood
into unforgiving
dirt
it leans
as I pass
this cross
on the highway
not in control
I was free
to chomp
the last chip
but snatched
by jealousy
a plastic shroud
was hung up
with care
by the wind
so warm
and free
Her eyes held
the same contempt.
Their reflections
mired in the puddle,
her pollen filled words
landing on his back,
and he brushed them off
like a discarded book
jacket.
No amount
of tugging
them around herself
could warm her
as he crushed
a wet cigarette
beneath his boot,
and she felt
her insides
discolor the rain.
October doors
are closing,
friendly apps
turned off.
November is beguiling.
My fingers curling
eager to be
keyboard warm.
NaNoWriMo looms
its challenge
fighting against
my PA plan.
Dangling
my internal
power cord,
a hypnotic STOP
watch shouts:
Time for me!
Warm drips melt
on my shoulders
falling down my arms
like dappled leaves
gently spilling sunshine.
Warmth can’t be cupped
cold and hard
like snowballs
forming a sheltering fort
to challenge you from.
Summer, you vixen,
my long distance love,
you have teased me again.
I ache for your taste,
your heat on my tongue.
Only if you
have pulled your hood
closer to warm
your cheeks,
have seen the sparks
lifting crackly red
against the sooty sky,
could you know
the brightness
of this tender moment,
rising hope for the possibility
of our tomorrow
deep within the shadows
of this chilling night.
The snow began softly.
I’m not sure if I can remember
when one flake landed alone.
Then it became crystal clear
as I watched the ground morph
thick into the white of the sky.
You came up behind me
putting a jacket over my sweater,
a gesture of kindness
before everything snowballed.
It was meant as an apology
to block out the cold words
that were landing thick and staying
as long as winter.
But my brothers taught me
to pack a snowball hard with ice
chucking it to cut on contact
while I dress in layers
staying soft and warm.