It’s too early to see the sky
but I hear the rain, pouring on a Sunday morning.
The lights are low in my apartment of plants,
a candle burns and it’s too early to see the sky but I
hear the falling water,
can’t sleep in
I guess I’d rather
put the pieces of my life
together in the flame-lit darkness.
These words —
my light
without them I’m fragments —
memories, stardust; with them I’m
a poet. All I hope to be
in all that I do,
I say the word and exhale . . .

This is my path, the loamy pathless path
made because my boots squelch
deeper into muddy night,
a forest made of timber, glass, nourishing air.
Street runner sliced by golden sunbeams
dodging curious rats and creaky timeworn trains
soaring across skylines
church spires shadowed in the intermittent rain . . .

It’s too early to see the sky
but I hear the storm;
there’s nowhere else to reach,
this is the best part
not the hope of a dream;
again and again, soaking in the glittery heat
this is the best part. Again and again —
too early to see the sky
but rain falls through cheery
morning flames . . .

Summer light descending
makes the leaves above me dance
all I’ve ever wanted is another fighting chance
but just as fierce as longing is the Cavalry of Wise
patient with desires
cavalier in what they prize.
A storm brews in their quiet hearts
look deeper in their eyes
for in their steely virtue dwells more
than we surmise . . .

Let free your storm of ice and snow
is this the world I long to know?
Then how are the things so often cold
when all I see is color and your warmth?
Burning from the inside are words I long to say
A bird that’s judged by how it strides
A beast within a cage
all I’ve ever wanted
is sunlight on my skin
even in the city
the river finds me as a kid
listening to drooling waves
I’ll never lose that part of me
scrape the barnacles from my back
and lay me down amongst
emerald rocks . . .

Moved here when it was snowing and my
winter heart was glowing
ruby red like fire with no plans of ever slowing
my heart flickers like the seasons
knowing autumn gold and winds of spring
my birthday’s passed the seasons too
I swim in seas of gratitude;
I see no need to rush
although time is passing by
what’s the fun in answers when
mystery keeps us alive
even though that means my back
still hurts sometimes . . .

But I think it’s just stress
everything I’ve gone through
preparation for what’s next
I try to ease the tension with your
cosmic intervention
and laugh about the past, the
alchemy of painful lessons —
let go, sit here and melt
in understanding moonlight
if nothing else works out
my heart is one thing
I got right . . .

The most beautiful things in life
come with gold-weighted heaviness
filling my room with more than light
but with memories, dreams, touch, sound; and
so I smile, and the day unfolds
this pathless path’s a story —
waiting to be
told . . .