The ghost of spring wanders here,
aimless and anxious and waiting to be reborn in small immaculate petals.
With tiny timid steps it traverses
winter’s indifferent graying skies longing to repaint the world verdurous.
How lithely it will bend itself to the task,
its eager fingers caressing these hills, birthing blues and greens and such blessings.
I watch, and everywhere I go here,
each trembling step I take into this winter, I see you—the very image of spring!
For in you fecund hope finds a wondrous home.
In you is life and laughter without equal, and a beauty that deftly reaches beyond time.
Winter in Göreme, Turkey (Nov 2021)
Karla kaplanmış dağlar şehre yan bakar
Kalbimin sessizliğini yansıtıyor duygusuzca Soğuk ve sakin ve acı acı kesindir.
(“Snow painted mountains glare over the city
Frigidly reflecting the silence of my heart Cold and still and bitterly sure.”)
“You know you’ll get over it,”
she said with such conviction I very nearly believed her.
“Oh? When?” I asked
forcing a nonchalance into my shattered voice.
“Soon enough.” She shrugged
and finished packing— all but the unwanted photos.
I never really liked winter,
how it needling crawled under my pale wincing skin.
“My bones ache in this cold,”
I used to tell her, and she— “You’ll get over it,” would say.
Stubborn winter drags on and on it seems
transiently coming and going, an itinerant artist drawing frigid lines on a dull grey canvas while I … aimless, I sit and stare in wonder.
Have I ever seen the sky descend so gently?
But then, how could I even know? Is it possible that each flake might evoke such a distinctive image floating in my mind?
Of course not. For how could it do so?
It is not for the enduring elements of this world to impress themselves on my ephemeral thoughts but for me to pay them the heed that they deserve.
somber clouds may shroud
this weary winter abode but the earth revives
rain drops kissing his chill cheeks
smiling at the cold
My son, Cooper, playing in the park
o, exalted daughter of dagda
passionate penetrating flame
arrow of seething fire
shot straight and true
and oh most salient
your brilliant burning heart
so remarkably intrepid at
encasing folly and fear
and hope and hearth
in precise syllables
your spirited voice enchanting
demanding and nearly as deft
as your ever healing touch
at texturing trembling
love’s finest adjuration
in the rising winds of winter
growling hungry harrowed
against these thin panes
i hear your keen lament
for murdered ruadan
but the earnest hush of solemn night
translating your crackling flames
is truth enough for we who remain
of how zealous love can be
and how enduring
i have known too much
of these restless sinews
woven impeccably tight
grasping brightly lacquered
boxes and loosely bound
leaves that hold far more
of tremblingly tormented
lives than i sobbing still
could ever so pretentious
comprehend no matter how
dearly i may strive to do so
i squat behind the ninth row
of jealously whispering players
clutching even at Castiglione
perusing the pages of love
like the most masochistic
of voyeurs praying piteously
for just one more chance
to feel this gray heart shatter
as God forbid it should ever
be kindly embraced by one
who knows the warm breath
of a long winter’s night
in the arms
Salinas 17 Dec 2012
voices cling to flesh
like ice on a frigid morn
brightness burns my eyes
Salt Lake City 12 Nov 2012