The sun is slipping down the horizon. An echelon of wild geese gather above.I follow grey wings into the storm.

My arms are branches of trees and you are
my nourishment, 
cut me down to a boat.
My spine a sturdy keel , my hair
unfurled sails.   A distant lighthouse
my only lamp for you hold the stars
in your hand.
If my  sails are cast into a cleft too
deep for me to cross
I was trying to get to you. 

rip David Crosby 

As deep as the Mariana Trench

The finest opus of Nightingales

A paradise where birds

sip nectar from petals that

unfurl just for you

Let me leave my mark

so that you will not forget

eternal lovers caught

in a mock sinners lullaby

Pristine winter

breathes her breath

over rolling hills,

across icy rivers,

whispers through forests.

Caribou footfalls sink

into snow smothered valleys.

I sense the loneliness, the silence

of ancient souls.

Can they feel my presence

beneath their frozen sky.

The Book

“To Mark Let the poetic sound of moons and stars invade your night thoughts to give you sweet dreams always for in your dreams lies the happiness you truly want. hope you enjoy the book Michelle”
–Message written on the flyleaf of a book

I saw the book–
its dustcover the azure
of the Mediterranean—
beckoning as the clear water did us,
and amid packing—
books, your books, your things–
I opened it, and remembered
how we were, lithe in the limpid blue,
then later reading this book, a gift,
you as bright as Keats’ star,
aware your blaze would soon be extinguished.

I rose with creaking knees
from the sea of boxes,
set the tear-dampened book
aside to keep, sensing your presence
like a nightlight in the next room
leaving a glow under the door,
and I thought I heard you say,
sweet dreams always, my love…