Beware the time you spend in cold gray places
You’ll tear down all things good and warm — oh, you will
Just to wrap yourself in that familiar chill.

The greatest silence comes after the storm,
Strange and dreadful absence from chaos formed
Like losing a limb that was never seen—
A habit-haunting void within the soul
Whose calls across that flat and cold gray sea
Return but echoes of longing and grief.

Gray clouds drift across pale skies,
Casting shadows over cool grasses
Still damp from recent showers.

Even on warm days when a bright sun
Blazes clear from dawn to dusk,
By dew are the dim hours yet claimed—
Sparkling globes in golden light
Whose warmth eventually does prevail.

Every day must have its pain.
Every morning the world carries tears
For the sun to lift away.

I am not ready
To love and hold you only
In old memories

-—

Loss is so wretched
It seems a wonder we can
Still love after it

-—

If it seems silly
To grieve a cat so — just know
He let me love him

-—

His eyes were yellow
Carved from a sun still youthful
They shall see no more

A long time ago, I thought I did not care for cats — or for pets of any kind. As soon as I opened my heart to the possibility that I was wrong, you came into my life and began to show me just how much it was possible to care after all.

This is a gift beyond words. Thank you, and goodbye, my sweet boy.

Above the dry leaves of a late winter
A butterfly dances upon my breath
It would have been a pretty afternoon
In this waking forest so close to bloom
Without turning back to the cold and dark
To find some farewell in my aching heart

Two lights fade this night
Only one seeks the morning
Without grief or fight

-—

Her hips sway like grass
In a gentle evening wind
Lazy, hypnotic

-—

I could dance on the
Curve of her lips, beneath eyes
Like butterfly wings

-—

Sleep, please wait a while.
I wish to dream of my love
With my waking mind

-—

Show me how to love
Like I never have before,
Then ask me for more

Think upon a time
Of peace and awe; soaring eyes
Across stars divine

(Written during Christmas at a cabin in north Georgia)

Half’s a day arc the sun had yet to trace
When a man on the hill approached its crest
Only chance had led him atop this place
Which now called upon him to breathe and rest

Hard had been the way and many leagues in all
Yet when o’er his shoulder he strained to turn
The road he saw spanned short by his recall
And to this path he sensed he’d not return

Before him now waited lands lush and green
Where far-off miles like rivers sighed and curled
They seemed to hold a promise true and clean
And in his heart a sweet new life unfurled

He closed his visor and shifted his weight
Then with a smile rode down to seize his fate

The river flows proud
And cannot look back to see
It comes from many

(Written in Atlanta woods near the South River)

A young man looked often upon the stars
Entranced by the moon’s light embrace
And dreaming of love that seemed just as far

Long have those wistful days been left behind
He has forgotten his father’s face
And far indeed has traveled since that time

Till quite by chance, from a tale grim and old
Sprung forth an unexpected grace
And bore dreams lost in his neglected soul

Clouds broke before a familiar moon full
The deep void now but a short space
And fading in a heart finally whole

Of karma’s existence I still have doubt
As so much of the world works well without
But let us say, for I feel whimsical,
Karma is true as all things physical
As real as stars across the night arrayed
That our debt in life in the next is paid—
Then I must have been a man wholly fine
To earn in this time a love so divine.

Out of vines and tangled brush
He finds a clearing between mushroom and bush
Before he can catch his breath
A little oriole lands on hand outstretched.
The world freezes, caught in time.
It chirps and cocks its head, bright-eyed, feathers fine
A thin ray of warm sunshine
Unveils rich orange and resplendent eyes brown
While across those wings slender
Pretty white patches form the fairest picture.
The man yearns to admire
Endeavoring to stay still as a whisper—
But the moment is soon past
White-patched wings lift and flutter
Ready to catch on a long-awaited draft.
Dazed by grief and desire
He senses outstretched fingers start to shudder
Why not grab the oriole?
Take it home, feed it, and by hearth keep it warm?
Would it not be preferable
To love and shelter a life so valuable?
An age lives in this moment
Till at last the black bird soars from hand open.
What could he do but observe
When freedom was all that made it so superb?
His heart swells as he sees it go
Tangled vines now memories from long ago,
In their place this arrival.
A beautiful, unexpected oriole.