as the venue of which we scribe
the color of our secret which everyone knows.
If you etched cuneiform in tablets of stone
would it be time that washed the meaning
from each of those carefully crafted notions?
You might vault words in mountains of granite
yet for the meanders and ribbons of intention
the heart always remembers the shape
and never once -- the tender of words
* * *
From a few years ago - because I like how it makes me feel:
Where the boughs of the pines hang so low
to reach the almost-touching carpet of needles
I lay for hours, safely between two quiet horizons
singing my wishes to tinder-dry blackened twigs
and whitened pine-sap, dried in graceful contrast
Silly boy, what are you thinking?
There are things we wish
There are things we miss
But in wishing and missing
We are yet and always: