And that makes twenty

River-Rock

You looked softer then.
The light behind your eyes
isn't brighter but it's different than today.
Perhaps a few rocks have scraped the smile on your face
into something harder, and smoother.
You are polished, iron and sleek,
with less to be hurt and more unafraid.
I like the river-rock you,
but how were you before?
Vulnerable, and softer to the touch,
more innocent and wide-eyed.
***

Fitting

Your fingers can always find

the light pulse at my throat.
My life is at your fingertips.
I watch your eyes when you survey my skin.
Am I a puzzle put together at seams-
are you trying to assemble me?
Or will you map my highways, by-ways
and crossings with red and blue?
I am not glass, not china.
I am cotton, breathing.
And you are suede.
You are the tailor
fitting us for each other.
***

Jane Austen Living

I'd love for us to curl up

in an old English manor
with ivy-covered walls.
We'll call each other by last names,
drink tea, and be painfully proper.
So perfect, so peaceful-passions boiling

beneath bonnets and cravats.

I'll tell you a secret.
The Romantics planted that ivy
to make life more mysterious.
Women, we love a good mystery.
The plan backfired.
That intriguing foliage?
It slowly tore down buildings.
No mystery left.
You can see right in.
***

Where We Are

Where I stand, the space between
myself and the bed, is holy ground.
I am barefoot for this,
the slowest, shortest journey.
The ground is warm, burning, perhaps-
tongues of flame running across
the cracks in the floorboards
from the bedpost to the soles of my feet.
What can be more sacred
than this silent, honored place?
Take off your shoes.
Don't you see where we are?

Poems of Patience

March Third

Embraced in the sun,
today I forget
about blinding white snow
still lingering outside my window.
I only see what
the world should be:
green and vibrant like my song.
I am standing still
in a world in a thaw.
Every impulse becomes
an action committed,
because I am young
like the grass trying to breathe.
I will never acknowledge
gray skies again.
I am solely celebrating
the return of life and ludicrous living,
refusing to realize I am finite.
We are invincible
and we shall never be cold again.
***

He is Reluctant

If the sun is faint
and weak on the window sill,
I will sing him to
full-flame,
until he bakes the earth
under a crust of
dry, scratching grass.
I will sacrifice
long-sleeved sweaters
and boots
so the sun will rise
in all his white heat,
the promise of sunburnt-skin
the lure to shine once more.
I will never wear
gray or black again;
only violet, yellow,
and orange
to coax an illusion
of spring, tricking
the sun into assuming
he is late.