Spring Sings

The sun sings Spring’s music,

with floral notes in the breeze,

and rainwater on ruby rosebushes.

In continual consonance.

I have an ear

for human harmony and the cadence

of the creek’s cicadas at twilight,

and the clickety-clack of the train’s timbre,

that tenuous toe-tap,

that makes my childlike heart hum.

“Word-warriors sing with me,

in a new love-language.”

One, two, three.

“Only love is the steady beat,

everything else is disharmony.”

I write Spring’s words in the half-light.

“Only love both listens and sings.”

The background humdrum of yellow bees

greet me when I wake under a ceiling of trees.

In delicious dissonance.

I have a vivacious voice

but I go to the tree-trail

just to listen

to the yellow-bellied songbird sing.

Uninvited Guest

I will stay up one last hour

surrounded by the hiss of dark,

and wait for you to come.

The stiff ground will crackle

with the sounds of twigs snapping

beneath the bulk of your boots.

Your fist will pound,

beating the flesh of my door

unwilling to be ignored.

I will take your coat,

offer no drink and listen

to your echo slapping

the walls of my home.

And when you are through

shaking the bones of your finger

in my stoned face,

“Thank you,” I’ll say, “our supper is through,”

point you to the door,

turn my back like before

and wait for you to come.

Alone With Melancholy

I. Mornings

I hear you,

a distant moan

dusting my ear.

I keep still—

head down,

eyes pressed shut.

My body burdened

knowing nothing keeps you

from me.

II. Afternoons

Your approach slams

the heaviest doors—

windowless rooms shiver.

Your spite funnels

a disquieting chill. Outside

the slow swath of the sickle.

III. Evenings

The ashen whisper of your voice,

the icy peeled finger pressed

against my lips.

Shhh...

a reminder.