busy me
with breathing
broken vine
of write me down
strain
to tell (again)

these stories I’m become
(the memory)
of tears
shed to seed the
only morning after

where thunder –
silent strumming
tho none (but one) can hear
wings against this waking
remind my soul
(commit my heart)
to dream

night birds
just beyond the reach
of reaching (into day)
secrets
sworn to flannel
rest beneath my
willing

words
(where none
are needed)
beyond what love
can say

. . .