emmett

one of those days
when the clouded roof 
of winter begins to crack,
golden drops fall through
the bending shingles;
the sun’s love begins to drip
like melting snow.

the falling drops 

[Published in the March issue of The Voice]

The morning is dreary 
and the day is not one of significance.
Fog hangs low in the valley;
I wonder if the world also feels time drag?

The slam of a car door returns me

back to basics
run, jump,
feel the wind between your fingers
and the grass beneath your feet

breath in
the sweet air, 
earth's nectar streaming out
of the tapped veins of life

sit and stay
in the shade,

we always walk by the river,
our favorite spot. but this time
i had wanted to tell you something,

some revelation about you.
but it seems i’d lost it,
lost in the tumult of my mind.

i bend down to the cresting water

I find it hard to hate
as I know 
if had walked from the start
in his shoes, or hers
or the others
my hands would be now
as equally stained in blood

What is character if not
a cold reflection 

someone once asked me
why i write of summer
i was never aware i did

i guess
i write of summer to 
forget winters dance

the gloom
the dark
the falling apart

it’s so easy to write 
a falling apart