Still of the Night

I cannot bear the silence of my room tonight,
And I must fill it with noise of wind and song,
Though the train passes beneath my window
And city-sounds crash through the wall.

No, this quietude is too much for me,
Though I dare not drown it in conversation,
A far too intrusive and meddlesome affair
With those with whom I share slight affinity.

But how is this now beyond the ken
Of one so accustomed to confinement?
The quiet is too empty for my ears
For they were once filled with your breath.


Autumn Will Remind Me of You

The sun only rises here,
But your eyes are the forest
At dusk and in twilight’s
Shadow dance and playful light.

Here is summer’s heat and sweat,
While you are coolness and shade;
The sun shines too harshly
For your faded green and brown.

But autumn will remind me
Of your ever-changing hair,
As it takes on new shades
Of auburn fire and umber.

Awake at Night

Did sleep find you later tonight
With me no longer in your bed?
Or was the space I left restful
With no arm beneath your head?

Did not seeing my face make it
Easier to turn off the light?
Or were my fingers through your hair
Putting you to sleep at night?

I close my eyes, but sleep won’t come
When I can’t hold your sleeping form.
The night brings me cold wakefulness
Without you to keep me warm.

A Woman Gave Me Poetry

A woman gave me poetry
Although she was not mine to love,
As if the stars aligned above
Too early in their courses.

And though she claimed she loved me not,
I tarried ’til I thought she would;
At last, she gave to me this good:
The chance to write our story.

Each day, as I take up the pen,
I hold her gently in my grasp
For fear the ink has dried at last,
And I must write our ending.

And now I worry if she leaves,
She’ll take the pen away from me;
And with her as my enemy,
I’d never write again.

With You

Where was I before the summer came–
Before the arch-muse was reborn,
Phoenix-like from the low-burnt embers?

Where, wandering, would life have led?
The question may remain unanswered,
For I need no response when I am with you.

Your presence is rebuttal enough
To satisfy any doubt or disbelief
The world might throw in my path.

With you there is comfort in pain,
And there is joy, eternally springing;
I can be all things with you.

I want to dance and weep with you–
To laugh and love this lively life–
To sit in quiet and rest in your touch.


What Holds the Year, Pt. II

What does the year hold for you?
Ends and beginnings coming together,
Announced and otherwise, I expect:
Newness and sameness, as it is with you.

I do not know what it holds for me,
But saying goodbye is a funny way to start;
I am returning to the place I now live,
But leaving the place I want to call home.

My muse will stay here, living and doing,
While I take a hiatus from life for a while.
The year will pass in a set amount of time,
But when time stops, does the heart stop, too?

Burning Bright

I am both book and reader with her–
A self-professed censer with soothing words.
And though she acts the scholar, still she is
A Montagian fireman in her own right.

While her books stay shut on the shelf,
She lays me open in her lap
And takes a match to my first page;
Cover to cover, she burns through me.

When she reads my soul in the firelight,
My spine tingles beneath the licking flame.
Then she warms her spirit as the flames rise
In the bonfire of my vanities.

In the morning, like Caesar after Alexandria,
Her fingers, smoldering with embers,
Will leaf through charred chapters,
Sifting ink and word from the ashes.