Where boundaries fall

The cupboards are stuffed
but I am empty and full only of echoes.

Following a line from point A to point Q
and it makes little sense. He is just
off the path but I see him, feel him there.
I read about long journeys
and relate to the brutal cold of the Arctic.

Someone gifted me the warmth of a poem
today and it felt like it could be home.

“Thank you for loving me”
is like thanking me for a storm
that brings destruction, then a rainbow.
I smile while holding back a story of falling
because I do not know how it ends.

Reveling in a reverie

Morning rang out with a hallelujah
amid an unholy roll of the body
as it brushed off the moonlight.

The lovers looked out their window
and were graced a sunrise
worthy of their dreamtime.

Even the fog was deferent
in the face of something larger
than mountains or plans for breakfast.

It was too cold for birdsong
but warm enough for the blues,
so they drew the curtain and reveled.

Yesterday was moot.
Tomorrow was anyone’s guess. Today was meant for reveries made real.

The ancient ones

A thunder of drumming
that no one seems to hear
beats an ancient song
of struggle and release.

There are no answers
when questions are derived
from quantum storytelling
and divining cloud shapes.

Today finds new threads
following old patterns
and the love that blooms
is bright and evergreen.

Trying to give direction

I am as far away as a tree branch
but close enough you can hear my song.
I try mightily to mask my breathing
but holding it in as I have been told is hard;
I would rather shout nonsense
than coldly express what I see.

What I see is far too vibrant to be calm
so you may usually know where I am
even if you do not know what I am thinking.

I am lousy at being detached
so I launch myself over and over,
hoping someone will catch me.

Ambling, a ramble

A return to aimless wandering
is a surprising side effect of getting older.
“Where” is not so important or even why;
what is will be, and what will not be, is lost.

Lost things can be remembered
and treasured without touch.
I will always remember something about you
even if just your sigh or laugh or hands.

So many storytellers swear by their processes:
drink, stand, sit in quiet, sit in a cafe,
travel, sit still, read voraciously, study,
and most of all, listen.

I stare at streetlights long enough
and they split in two, leaving a vision
of sunset straddling mountains and
skyscrapers. I hear music that may be wind.