Distance Measured

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Distance is measured in absence and cups of tea.

Seasons fly like miles, wildflowers remind, but then go,

their faces hung with sorry.  Distance lingers its space

in written kisses, muted colors, and shadows in between.

Music fills, then hollows, echoes, magnifies the far.

Measure it in cold, the blankets it takes to feel safe,

the uneasy sleep of reach, tired photographs scatter.

Distance is kilometers of untold stories, substitutions,

the poetry of isolation, the lapse of home, the missing.

Distance is measured in the expanse of the ache for you. 

 

 

Longing for Lost

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Among the bare trees and ridges
in the last days of the year, 
I tried to get lost. It was nearly dark, 
evening clouds covered the mountain, 
covered me, pulling deeper down 
past mossy fallen oaks and the stream 
that sang of never returning. 
I followed as each path faded, 
until there was none, and no me, 
just blueness and quiet, and I secretly 
hoped no voices would find me to call 
me back.  Late, in the dark and cold, 
there were voices that haunted me 
back, and I shuffled return steps 
with my head down, through the darkness. 
I still long for lost. 

Words Run Through

Words are tiny foot soldiers sent out on missions.

They carry their letters and meanings with weighty might,

each a different hue, a different sound.  Some words scramble

and hurl themselves at their target, and some dance and sway,

so it seems they may never find their way.  Oh, but, when they do,

those words carry light and resonance and make faces glow. 

There are words that are hot, consumed with flames, dangerous

to touch, but still they land and sear, burn through, leave ashes

behind and smolder.  Words of longing carry shades of blue

and sound like a piano in an empty hall, echoing.  They drift

slowly through the air and settle like a whisper on a lonely cheek.

The words of kindness shine and pick up broken pieces, wrap

themselves around until no more pieces can fall.  Words

may have an edge to balance on, until they decide which way

to drop.  When they don’t seem to be enough, words call in more

tiny foot soldiers and weave themselves together in new ways,

creating, becoming something that never existed before,

becoming part of you.  Words have no beginning and no ending,

only places to stop along the way.

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