Love does not migrate

A spring wind builds
and snow cedes it’s paltry warmth
from street corners and houses
to those which need it now.

Birds return fitful of song
and green pushes deftly
through thawing dirt
as couples sip coffee from cozy chairs
watching through windows
the slow tide of spring
enter their lives again,
talking of books
and each other.

But love does not migrate;
it only comes, or goes.

It goes.


To know at least

I want you to know
one thing.
-Pablo Neruda

I want you to know at least
seven things

then a million more
until you effervesce with inquiry
and insight
quaking in a peach soft moon,
the chattering of delicate birds
rippling from you through my mind,
small birds calling out, circling each other
through the night.

An aged tree pruned,
ruined or saved,
with each mincing cut,
from thinned branch
seven nascent buds
extend upward from me towards you.

I love you as a river
swells against ephemeral banks
and divides with elevation;
cutting tributes reach 
smaller into the widest part
of my soul, my watershed.

The gnarled roots, airy azure talons, 
gossamer heartstrings embrace my eyes
and show you in my dreams.




I will bend and sway

delicately in the dayspring waves

like the susurration of aspens

until I break

this yoke of grief, myself,

or the soul of the songbird,

ignorant, diaphanous,


Always tomorrow.