, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

in secret
the snow is piling high
and every ounce of oil
has burned
to grey

resemblance to our destinies
is surely not our fault
we took such care
to wipe the proof

of miracles
there must have been
more than one
remember when
convincing me of something more
than signs

but the book is left
unopened –
I’m sure these aren’t my cards
the joker laughs
til I can scarcely sleep
bury me with potions
leave the window
and when the birds are roosting
let them be

cut the trees
the young will thrive
and when I’m grey
the best survived
a dozen more
than the summers might
have saved

to winters
we are taken
the hunter without grace
when everything is turned inside
to white –
the sacred lace

the first
to say I’m sorry
the last to say pretend
the fields are bare
and soon the time to go

the spring is come
as the reddest buds return
I’ll put my apron back
and time will slow

wrapped inside a promise
with nothing much between
the magic lent to circumstance –
the sweet desire
of dreams

cowboys sewn to flannel
each bittersweet regret
shadows fade
to scars the shade of night

illusion of a moment stilled
by fireflies and letters
tender indiscretions
to take the place
of light