beside my bedside

he asked her to follow, she did not respond. he asked her to run, she continued walking on. she wanted him to ask once more, just to want her once more. but he's just a thought; a black tea stain on bedside oak; a novel's bent page. he's paper thin. just a borrowed book

Ifs of the moon

She looked like she had always looked
felt like she had always felt
and moved with absence of grace
she was familiar to herself
and that was the problem

if the moon was her love
would she lend a bent head up to him every night?
or would she change
one star for every night

your fingertip strokes

i want water colors
mixing and stirring
spilling into one another
a painting, yes
that's what we'll be

when i surrender

you make me want to be
in perfect disarray

content with discontentment

Braided hair, down her back.
light blue dress without a wrinkle
feet arched; perfectly naked
the laces quiet atop her empty shoes
they named her lonely

And she flew with angel wings

It's a different kind of love,
that's what her mother said.
But it broke the little girl's heart all the same.

She is love

She isn't anyone's somebody

She is a writer of simple things

She is more powerful when her thoughts have wings

She is lost on that same old pathway leading home

She is certain that's the shrill of her mother's scream

She is feeling how her heart tears at the seam

She is staying far from the house where the rain never stops

She is running through the grass, up to her knees

She is pleading for her legs to carry her away

She is going to look back but just not today

She is aware that for her faith she will have to pay

She is poor- without pennies, nickels or dimes

She is rich with emotion and dreams and rhymes

She is young still

She is waiting patiently
She is ready to be
She is love