In her presence,
a quiet dawn breaks,
soft and steady,
like the first light of day.

Her heart speaks in whispers,
a language I’ve always known,
no words needed,
just a feeling,
like the earth calling me home.

Her smile is the calm
that stills the storm inside,
a gentle breeze on a restless sea,
where I can find peace,
where I can finally breathe.

She holds the weight of the world
with a grace that never falters,
turning every moment
into something warm,
something true.

I don’t need to understand it all—
I just need to feel it,
this quiet, tender magic
that wraps itself around me,
whispering that it’s okay
to simply be.

And in her gaze,
there’s a garden,
where every part of me can grow,
where every shadow finds its light,
and I can rest
in the softness of her soul.

perilous forests
lay bare: sheer, dark, and sincere;
so many secrets.

butterflies flutter -
reach for the nectar of life;
winds change direction.

a line in the sand
waves falling short every time
jittery wrinkles

A whisper soft—across the vale,
Where Rona Mae Ronda treads—
Her footfall light, a breeze’s tale,
Through meadows gold—she spreads.

No need of day—her presence brings,
A twilight soft and kind—
With every step—a thousand springs,
Awake in heart and mind.

The daisy turns—her face to see,
As Rona Mae Ronda glides—
Through clover fields—so carelessly,
Where innocence—abides.

The robin pauses in his flight,
To hear her laughter’s sound—
For Rona Mae—by day or night,
Turns all to sacred ground.

She leaves no trace—yet all can tell,
Wherever she has been—
The very air—begins to swell,
With what the soul—has seen.

:: 08.12.2024 ::

I know we meet
people for a reason
and every time I didn't
think it was the case,
hindsight proved me wrong
ten times out of ten.

But us? I can't seem to accept
you were a stepping stone,
a lesson, a memory etched
in my spirit only meant to
redirect me to another place.

I just don't want what comes next
without you here to share it with me.

Tell me why I can't seem to
come to terms with us being
not only impermanent
but seemingly forgettable.

I cannot bring myself to let go

The sound of Christian’s voice stirs me, awake
the vision of undulating ridges—verdant—
as my head falls, slowly, the window of the van
a glimpse of light through the rock on water
My coup de foudre. Southern France
with winding roads and biking hills
Take me to where the Ardèche flows.
Goodbye to the sweater shed from shoulder.
Lunch eaten fresh in October by the river.
Comté and baguette spread on our blanket.
We are off to Nîmes
Where butterflies are chased, beneath the bridge
the water rushes below me.
Delicate steps.

In Arles, the Rhône
where I can dream.
A quiet stream only for me
and those whose memory swims on
behind the easel—
natural and wild—so near—
masked by morning mist
that brushes, alters, clouds Vincent’s canvas
to a “foggy day over the Rhône,” we should say
and an old painting feels like home under
the stars. Am I free?
River scintillates in the dark of night
where I sit. The reflection is of me.

Out on the ice as the season turns
the lake groans in leviathan language
and I understand, I do

But routine decides the route, not me,
and this floor might spiral fracture
as a passing thought
to those dark waters