Prospero

My Prospero, my blue-eyed man of the island.
You who rage against the ships that pass and throw rocks into the sea.

My Lover, my dark-haired Aries of the glen.
You who touch me with feather lightness and breath soft into my ear.

You who moves the bed to a place below the window, so that we wake to gentle light of dawn across the meadow. You who watch the deer step soft across dew-stained grass in silence, leaving their split-toed prints like magic drawn into the earth.

You who speaks to me each night, words of your life, an open book with blank pages waiting for rewrites that come with understanding.

You who lives inside my heart, my soul.

And who am I? Your Ariel, your Caliban?
She who carries your firewood and does your bidding on the wind.

Your Miranda? The one to lie with head in your lap, sweet dreams in the safety of you.

Or am I your Tempest? The one to rock you on your moorings and bring the shipwreck to your shore.

We are the sea and the sand, the meadow and the sky, the deer and the footprints crossing the meadow, leaving marks to disappear in the bright sunlight.

We are the light and shadow of storm crossed waves, the calm of glassy water, driftwood anchored on the beach. We are shards of broken glass worn smooth by the tides, pulled by the phases of the moon. We are our pasts and our futures, inextricably linked skin-to-skin.

You my Prospero, my blue-eyed man of the island and I, your safe harbor in the eye of the storm.

Sand Before Your Feet

Breath held.
Fear of taking flight.
The ground falling off beneath you.
Feet leaving earth.

Look sideways.
I hold your hand.
My voice in your ear to comfort you.
Bracing your wings.

Alone there is no compass.
No direction known.
With me, there is nothing to fear.
Learn to exhale.

Silhouette

When night did silhouette the bird against the moon,
I stood in empty space for your return.

But instead of careful tread on hallowed floors,
I heard the wind and nothing more.

The lights of town spread far below, the lonely sound of a whistle blows,
telling me you’ve gone away, not to come to me today.

Though I can never leave this place, you wander free
Around the world, across the sea, so very far away from me.

In endless night I roam the dark, waiting breathless until light,
to sit in silent misery, and know it’s just the moon and me.

Before you’ll come cross road and glen, silver dust rains ‘round my face
and still I wait and wait and wait….

My Heart Like Forest Fallen

A clear cut. Wounds of the earth show through.

The landscape of a human heart displays damage always.

I feel safe with you.

A field of broken tree stumps.

Dangers overwhelm.

Like fractured earth, I wait…
and hope for tenderness.

Until Winter Comes

Young I was sweet spring of April,
Snowless rain and buds of future.
Steeped in timeless trees which sheltered
The youth of my enchanted wonder.
‘Til aged I found in glorious summer,
I fed my muse and adult hungers.
Moved across the sunlit chapters
August comes, and what comes after.
Longer days from shortened nights,
shift again in later life.
And come upon the cooling autumn,
Where winds slice clean the hours of sunshine.
In the depths of gold September,
I turn my thoughts to those of shelter.
When in the cold of deepest winter,
Behold the hearth of late December.
And as I lay in earthen slumbers.
My dreams do fade, extinguished embers.

Of Sadness in a Room

Grief is a naked light bulb
hanging in an empty room.

Stark white, too bright,
it illuminates the imperfections,
though shadows still remain piled in the corners
and memories lie waiting to be stored
somewhere else less exposed.

I can find my own sorrow, even in the dark.

I just wish I didn’t have to find it alone.

Neighborhood Bars and Cat Glasses

I’ve been married a year and a half he says,
from across the table where we have met for coffee.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him.

Her name is Jean and her eyes are blue, like yours.

He doesn’t add the last line. I do that myself in my head.

He tells me of many things,
his life now with this woman who is his wife, who is not me.

We used to drink a lot, in the half-lit bars of my neighborhood.
We would sit in corners and spill tequila.
My favorite was lit with black light,
florescent fish covered the walls, the floor, the tables.
The bartender was young and thin and female
and wore old-fashioned cat glasses like my mother
did when she was young.

We would stumble home and make love on my
mattress on the floor.
I am with someone else now myself,
but still....

I’ve been married a year and a half he says,
and I wonder if I should be happy.

Fragile

What fragile stands of bones are we?
Burned bright in life’s pale flame
Until the final dark abyss.

What fragile stands of bones are we?
To linger on this earth but brief
And then a final gentle breath.

What fragile stands of bones are we?
Restless on the marbled floor
Before the last enchanted dance.

The chains of days are memories,
Uncoupled at the end.
Leaving links of life divine
Swinging from a living hand.