in the morning of peace and know
beside the line between now and float
the trees felt their wait and reached
above how, into the hold of sun before
and clouds they became always and
in the soul of black and white time
grew into glow and everything was true
secrets like a tree torn of leaves,
each one a truth untold, even
the desperate grip of branches
could not stop the fall. sun stares,
demands honesty, reveals deceit
in her glare. his wooden arms
are no match for her golden gaze,
so all of it falls, half-truths and lies,
and he becomes bare, only bony
fingers of regret, reaching out,
as if she would forgive. she covers
her eyes in clouds and turns away.
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.
Talking to the Clouds 