roses ~

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she wasn’t meant
for roses
no ordinary bloom
could spare the vine
so intertwined
with wild and wanting
roots

sometimes a weed
of twisted lace
is all she desires to be
a rare bouquet
of everything –
a garden growing free

beyond the need
for crimson
ruby reds and pinks
a shade of honeysuckle
seldom bleeds

she wasn’t meant
for roses
edges so defined
a mystery –
of tangled leaf
by love
left unconfined

. . .

again ~

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within this place
of waiting –
shall I will you come
for me
and remember not
the want
we wasted here
the sweet refrain
confessed
until whispers
become flesh
til all I knew
was only you
again

a melody
corrected –
from somewhere
we began
as the afternoon
fell sweet
into the stars
when for a moment
wishes were
our way for getting back
a slice of love
became this place
we are

. . .

pray me down ~

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dream
and I will find you here
sleeping in my bed
wrapped in light
wherever longing sits
stay the night
pray me down –
sighs are all I need
to make me yours
would prove your heart
a thief

gather me
wildflowers –
write to me
in stone
speak as if you never
meant to go
burden me a future
a fate we dared believe
sail me home
on waves I cannot see

. . .

jaded ~

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this heart
it may be jaded –
these arms
tremble yet
fingers search in darkness
for your own
a moment
recreating –
the warmth that is your touch
a smile to learn –
a breath to bring me
home

these tired lungs
remember –
the crush of rivers cold
the curve
of ancient stones
beneath my skin
a time
absolved from passing –
cherished by the sea
from oceans
nearly empty
we begin

. . .

hands that knew you well ~

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i begged my heart
surrender
to the absolute of time
nights without you
cradled in my arms
i bartered peace
a place
would lay me down
to let you go
years before your soul
remembered mine

verses fall
weary
from hands
that knew you well –
curtains float
as whispers to the breeze
all i have
is no more than a store
of yesterdays
a season uninvited
silver cords
and silent pleas

. . .

o’er my soul ~

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i know the language
all too well
the wind
the river’s moan
a melody replayed
– falling water
o’er my soul

i hear the stars
feel their ache
each time
the light is gone
i know the way
a moment touches
everything
we know

i’ve made peace
and cursed a name
a kiss to burn the night –
slept in fields
where clover bent
the sky

i know the way
have passed it more than once
along the years
a break beneath
the branches –
as I am brought to tears

i know the language
all too well
the wind
the river’s moan

. . .

how we loved ~

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when the fields
have been neglected
the rain
may never come
to spare the soul
from grieving –
the heart from getting on
when the light
is nearly faded
without a promised
one more time
when the name I keep
upon my lips
is dried before the sun
the ground made cold
to wait
I will wait
beyond the place
where touch becomes a memory
of where we were
how we loved
I will wait
beyond the final fade
another this to know –
I will wait

. . .

never ~

whatever more
is still to find –
would trade
of these – familiar days
to know the heat
of one more kiss
a mouth –
would every fear
erase

I’ve heard it said
I know tis true
the painter seeks
with words to paint –
a poet dreams
in colors
not her own
music works against
the fist
to soothe
a restless lover –
nights belong
safe within a song

for one more
brutal shade of red –
a stem of verse
to pacify
creation swells against
the brush –
with ne’er a thought
to words denied

. . .

where once I lay me down ~

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are there lines
across your heart
where once I lay me down
a memory of warmth
against your skin
I was here
just the same
to return most every night
when red is fallen
soft along the ridge
are there pieces
still to missing –
I have wondered now
again
down the roads
ten thousand miles
afraid
were I to call
would you hear me
sweeter than before –
a crush
of velvet wings
amidst the trees

. . .

wanting still for words ~

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what solace –
words
when grief
has stayed
to steal the warmth
from tender lips
was yesterday a prayer
a goodbye kiss
cold –
a sure reminder
of flame
where passions burned
into the sheets –
ashes now remain
who would blame
this heart to ache
these arms –
they tremble so
wanting still for words
that cannot warm –
that will not hold

. . .