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)


you’ll get over it

“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

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.


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


in her arms

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

of love

Salinas 17 Dec 2012