it is seven a.m. and the house is gray
the rooms are gray and the ceiling
is gray, and when I look outside
the sky is gray

it does not look bright
or gay–today
in my head
it is dark like my coffee
but I am tranquil


the heat came quick
just after the rain
forming clouds before my eyes
hovering there

my fingers play in them
like a child
making new shapes
every time his face appears

full moon waltz

fighting with the clouds to see through inky sky
my mind wanders to the last months
how many times someone comes to mind
when I do not wish it
dear will-o-wisp clouds enchant me
but still I strain to see the moon
and it shows just its slip, straining my eyes
for only a glimpse, but
I refuse to start the dance
I will not take a step until I see your face