Category: Writing

I first saw you play a violinlike a cattail on a virgin wind. You were only an outline then. Tracing clouds with your eyesonly later did I see,and petals with a...

I thought the night’s solitude over,on the forest’s edge where only I can go.I proffered my question to angels, towering above the trees,more ancien...

The days are filled with you; the night, too.ever-growing, my vines grow into you.Taut against your blossoms, over your valleys,I caress you like a fog, water a...

We are the stories we tell–Even this onewe weave together. Our beautiful wordsdance with each otherand our love multiplies.

This sun, this moon, this moss-covered womb from which love awakes. To know you now, (Why not then? But still … now!) The butterflies have multiplied. I catch t...

Mistress city my fingers trace your long highways– soft as Persian carpets. Your spires lure your lamps conspire your thousand eyes glitter behind neon an...

All the world is in your eye that bends like a reed; the wind–your brush, the canvas–seed. With what strokes the world is made the downy moon, the s...

There are moments that linger in the memory. Such a moment I think is this. She stood upon a precipice– to fly or to fall, and unfolded herself before me,...

The world turned back ’roundand said, “You’ve suffered long enough, old man.” May I say that I love you?The words vault, skitter, and ch...