You are in the bathroom,
Fixing your hair the way you like it.

The steam from your shower
is setting into the bedroom now.
I can smell your shampoo.

The skylight casting an early summer glow
across the tiny water droplets speckling your skin
makes you look studded with rhinestone.

The subtle shifting of your weight
creates a curve in your side
and as you drop your hip and bend your knee,
I think for a moment,
that you look like art.

That moments like these are what inspire
The greatest artists in the world.

That I might be like them
if you were my subject,
But I am too busy loving you
To lift a paintbrush.

on this hill a poet can see how
the tip of the forest is the dance-floor for light, how
silent sediments don't notice our steps
yes, there are mythologies of darkness in the bracket (some are ready to take the plunge) but
I am here to watch the evening simmering, the light letting go of itself
the tide of sight attuned with the air discarded by trees
my bones run in a depth even when time calls a truce with itself

Shadows don’t get deeper
when they overlap.
They don't get darker
under a brighter sun.

Dragonflies out in the sun
They know what I mean

We share the same
filtered sun.
We share the same
moving shadows.

And we are all the stronger for the sharing.

Deep into the dark and dreamless night I lay
Cradling that which is not half as precious by day

Subtle and sweet on my heart like a balm
As I cradle this hope like an egg in my palms 

And should the day rise before the shell breaks
I'll tend to it gently and soothe those old aches

And all through that daylight which burns through the frost
I hold to a promise from the lips of the lost

From morning to evenings, from sunshine to sleep 
As day slowly gentles its way to the deep 

And back in the dark, alone as I lay 
To hold that sweet dream  
Till the light of the day

The shadow of the aloe plant
Is as still as the sunlight
That crawls along the wall.