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February

The road shines with salt and silver,
A jealous reflection of the older weave
of snow-kissed branches overhead.
On these short days,
while I shelter sleepy under your hand,
I dream of feathers
and you
of leaves.

This Morning

I awoke this morning thinking:
sunlight through the blinds feels like
your fingers exploring my lips,
the bridge of my nose,
a kiss by proxy on the apple
of my cheek

The rumble of your car engine
chuckle while I whisper

five more minutes
and

yes
and

Yes.

Peace, poet

Each of us like you
has felt this surge
the rolling tide
in ceaseless cycle
demands we spill
jellied hearts
tangled fronds
sea-picked spines
upon an unforgiving shore.

Again

How perfect it will be
The poetry I’ll write
When I begin to write poetry
Again.

Tease

I tease my toes
through a pool of sunlight
watching the wake
ripples left behind
in motes of dust

Time

Hands sweep around
and in that circuit
we spent a lifetime.

Is the peach sweeter
when dimpled by your fingers
or when your teeth pierce its skin?