there’s the rain
spring, you swashbuckler
wash me dripping wet
clean of winter, autumn, and
summer
and expectations
down the drains
and soaking the lawns

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We two

How come every time I kiss your neck
you smell like the wind?
how come every time I kiss your neck
you smell like the wind–
the outdoors as if you were born there and come home
each time you open the doors, kissed by sun and shower
every time you walk barefoot up the walk

Your hair hanging over my face
makes me think of corn silk
and I want to kiss your ear, every time
smelling the earth in your hair, and
the world I have not traveled much of yet
has left a map across your cheeks
and over your nose, which I know
will wrinkle as you read these words

Don’t be unkind–like lightning–when
I don’t translate it well; don’t ask too many questions, please
I already don’t feel your heart–
it stopped when you read the fourth line, when
you felt my lips on your neck and an earthquake rumbled under us
when I bit your flesh there, when I bit you
as sure as you are sulking

How come we speak two languages when we connect in space? Why
do I break orbit when I try to plug you into my psyche, tell me
why is it impossible to fully be one on this sphere–
us here, we there–the wind and rain in your skin and your hair, tell me
why can we not be one like weather and ocean
and the stars and the air

How come–

The shortest day of the year

I sit in the dark–eyeing the window
the sky still stark, the dozen odd
apples clinging to the tree out back
slow about preparing my coffee I.V.
that life-blood we cling to
as the sun presents itself

It is slow coming, like me
the scent of coffee out of place in this darkness
the pillow calling back to me–‘linger a while’
my fingers on the keys tapping along
while my family slumbers
and day takes its sweet time to show

A glint of light says it is time, the
finger of God across the sky speaking ‘patience’
for in time all will be revealed
the plodding boots of winter, and the sun
that same star that brightens summer
will get in your eyes like every other day

quick, be in it
before it slips back behind the clouds
to hide with the gold
like leprechauns

I took the Christmas tree down

I am sharing this out of season, an Easter poem I wrote a few years ago, as we were adjusting to our empty nest.

I wanted to share it with Harry Miller at Yellow Crane in the Rain. You should visit his blog. This is one of my favourite posts:
https://yellowcraneintherain.blog/2018/09/06/in-situ/

Are You Thrilled

on Holy Thursday, because I promised it would not be there
to look at on Easter morning. Dinner, notwithstanding
the ham and sweet potatoes would resemble our Christmas dinner
our eyes on the lovely tree in all its glory
the ornaments shiny and calling out to us, rejoice-celebrate-

Though now they mock us-drinking a toast to grandmas deceased, and
burn the roast and put out the candles, but they have no right
to judge us, those self-serving props of Santa Claus
on that holiest of holy days to look at our slips and slights, and
tell the neighbors, look their lights are up past epiphany

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hotter than eggs on a pan

sitting in my own sweat
t-shirt sticking to the car seat
I go back years
to the scent of patchouli
and a badlyrolled joint
the backdrop for us

you and me and he
a triangle of the craziest, and
she nearly took my head off
guessing what game we were playing
the day covered in southern comfort

I was so glad mom didn’t know
what I was up to
sizzling summer days
on eagles’ wings
however we grasped at them
hands-knees-lips-neck

memories etched
in the rocks at the lake
impressions of our bodies gone
as sand shifted and water seeped
before anyone could see
that we had been there

their seasons

damp brow
hard work and well-
earned rest
a starling sings, and
she lifts her hands
in prayer-full stance–
the wind is shifting
and she remembers

pre-twilight
early summer blues
a man-boy’s voice, inviting
don’t forget about the love
don’t leave behind
don’t leave summer behind

evergreen
through July’s singe of grass
first raspberries tart
and sweet
red lips musing
a wipe on the back of her arm
leaves
traces of longing

what do you suppose
the clouds talk about
congregating in cirrocumulus bevy
when they see all of it–
the neck bite
the slammed door
one red apple

by August’s fireflies
he-on the road
writing sonnets on social media
bursts
from her pen
epics he will not read
reams, of
her late night daydreams

just in time
for September,she
will answer the phone
breathless
wondering why he waited
until he finished the bottle
to call
each word counted
and kept

starting his wander back
he searches for her key
in a pocket with a hole in it
knowing
it will take nearly ’til May
to speak of her again. Until

the breeze catches her scent
and he returns, to
find her once more–
his brown-haired fay
he swore was made of vapour
from the clouds
of early June

El largo invierna acaba

Attempting to leave behind all of it
the anger and the strife
the inability to forgive–
I bathe and put on something new
I purge my body of everything toxic

How do we live as if the winter was not?
how do I go on pretending we are not bruised–
so I go, so I sear with fire,
I cauterize the wounds
so I go, so I remember
how to let go of the list of wrongs

Without letting go of the wonder, the miracle
as Spring takes over my house,
as love fills the empty heart chambers
still sore
and I weep for what is lost–this day

I tell you, this day is for weeping
for what could’ve, should’ve, and
would have been
without the despicable, with
something more noble
than good intentions

But tomorrow, tomorrow
the weeping will be put away, and
life allowed to flourish, love allowed to nourish–
tomorrow will be today, the anger swept up
and tucked away, put in the bin for the burning
the burning of the last remains of winter

(are we) sprung

let us run (hard)
it is not yet summer
but the sun
is burning my shoulder
and the clouds hang back
waiting for a sign
all buds bursting

let us not (give up)
stay between walls of ivy
each caveat they hurl
weighs tons–up against
daffodils in your sunglasses
and tulips–and rose oil
dabbed behind my ears

the wind is changing again

all of our spring and summer
went wild with autumn
then froze solid
each tender caress replaced
with slaps and words tossed askew
seasonally mad

each private spot I showed you
in a weak moment, is
now vulnerable to windy storms
and harsh words
like a little girl eyes up
(please be kind)

it is a matter of time, before
that girl will recall her strength
close the door forever
that allowed you in, and
let inside
the wind and weather