The sky is masked
with billows of gray clouds
that have made their journey from the north
and move without haste
about the Gateway to the West.

No bird casts its silhouette
against the dreary backdrop,
and rain falls
like tears from our eyes:
two wanderers
hands interwoven,
trying to find a place to call home
so our weary feet can rest.

Oh, we are prone to wander.

She rests her head on my shoulder,
her soft brown hair falls
gently across her amber green eyes.
I rest my head on hers,
and we are timeless.

She whispers: "Everything is going to be okay"

I drive west
and she drives east
and rivers and roads
finally fall between us again.

The sky breaks its masquerade
and the gray dissipates
and the blue is radiant.
The birds take flight,
their wings directed toward
the four winds-
no concern for
northsoutheastwest.

I look up and whisper:

*"Everything is going to be okay"

passes
in a flash of famous last words.
An extravagant way of
going out in style
that is only witnessed
by those stargazers,
spread out amongst
layers of blankets,
that are lucky enough
to be watching
without
blinking.

Soon, each of the things that I cherish the most,
like pottery formed by my hand,
will fall from its rest on the eye of a needle
and breaks into pieces of sand.

If I cannot see when the moment arrives
when something so fragile falls
from its balancing act on the tip of a pin,
will time delay for me at all?

The grey cold
lingers in the bitter air
and snow falls like ghosts
declaring here will be a sufficient place to haunt.

I wake up
A time to seek and an time to lose
not to the birds
a time to mourn and a time to dance
or the sun shining through the blinds,
a time to keep silent and a time to speak
but to banshee sobs
a time to weep and a time to laugh
and voices that were once intertwined.
a time to love and a time to hate

I stare
out the window
and onto the unrelenting days
of December Timing-
a time to keep and a time to cast away;
a time to tear and a time to sew.

For everything, there is this season.
For every matter under the sun, there is this time.

I want to stretch my broken wings
a time to die
and fly toward the hidden, hopeful
light of day that is masked behind
the gray cold.

*a time to be born

I was perched
high above the busy market streets
in the stone wall trees
across the street from your favorite cafe.

You took a seat in the patio
that overlooked the sightseers
living in the moment,
and the photographers
trying to capture the time that was moving too quickly-
knowing this moment could last forever.

I morning light was radiant
in your dark brown hair
like a glimmer of concealed hope
that you and I both share.

I glided down from my arboreal
with my wings - blemished and fragmented,
yet cheerful and warm -
dancing in the warm sea air.

I landed on the rooftop
and I sang to you,
like you've always imagined me doing.

You smiled. A sublime sight to see.
And you closed your eyes and listened,
and breathed,
realizing that time is moving too quickly,
but knowing you can capture this moment

and make it last forever.

A thin, glistening sleeve of rime
refracted the rays of sunrise light
into a bright and shiny morning.

I stood tall amongst the resonance of the
distant hymn of birds,
trying to conceal my
quivering knees.
I took a breath of
the anticipation in the air -
the breeze preparing itself for
the coldest season of the year.

I'm in motion now,
realizing that time goes on,
but unable to comprehend that
time is going right now.

Yet I have my Compass
and I have my Map.
I will sing melodies of hope
for the wind of Winter to carry away.

For I am convinced that
the distant hymn of birds
is the melody of hope
you, too, sing into the wind.

This boat,
sailing on these synapses of rivers,
was leaking badly
and was starting to sink;
my old oars could not take me ashore.

But an immaculate current,
conducted by a divine crescendo,
pushed the waves to land.

I finally slept on the shore
and light shone through the fog.