In Which Autumn Did the Moon Come?


In which Autumn did the moon come,
and did you kiss her pale cheek?
What dry-leaf scented breeze
filled your head with her perfume?
What night-whispers teased your ears,
while you considered slipping
from your shoes to press your
bare feet against the still,
warm comfort of the earth?

Which stars shimmered, white
just out of your periphery,
blinked in and out to catch
your attention and then
bid you to patiently wait?

Did you tip back your sleepy head?
Did you inhale the shadows?
Did anticipation tingle as it settled
in the space between your shoulders?

Did the clouds slowly drift,
like the cream in your coffee?
Which number did you see on that
late-October calendar page?
What hour of the night ticked by
on the solemn mantle clock?

And when she slipped from between
blankets on her cloud pillowed bed,
leaned in closer to offer you a smile,
Did you raise your arms in welcome?
Did you invite her then to dance?


My Love: A Lament


My love for you used to drip from my fingers,
to hide in the thick, deep folds of my skirt.
It used to soak every thread and trail
behind me like a wild raging river.
My love for you used to infuse my every breath,
drawn deep into lungs so thirsty for your air.
I could not imagine choking to breathe on
an atmosphere where you don’t exist.

My Love.

My love for you used to spill across these pages
in dark ink, in clever words and rich phrases,
to fill my head with rhyme and music,
until I felt your pulse in my blood.
My love for you used to carry me buoyant, floating,
head above water, lifting me higher on wings,
until I could fly, nearly touch the pockets of
silvery dust on the surface of the moon.

My Love.

My love for you used to know no earthly boundaries,
used to be celebration, a feast to make us drunk.
When midnight chimed, I flew home smiling,
counting the hours until we touched again.
My love  for you used to be a flood, a pulsing ocean.
We used to be children, dancing in its waves.
My love was not minimized, not measured
and found too much, or toxic to your life.

My Love.

My love for you is now meted out in teaspoons,
stirred carefully into your coffee – no spilling,
metered until I have more in my pockets,
than you have enough cups to hold.


Image credit: