Flying Conditions

The eye already knew
what the heart was leaning towards, 
and when that desire was beheld, 
the mind could hardly conceive it. 
There had to be secrecy involved, 
because if the mouth found out, 
the tongue would become traitorous, 
and give everything away. 
This inkling, this heart-stir, 
could go one of two ways: 
it could fall like a helpless robin from the nest
or fly away into the warm summer sun
but only in its proper season. 
So the eye is sure to be careful, 
while the heart guards itself, 
and the mind simply decides, 
to keep it's mouth shut
until the spring rain and summer heat
make for the most amiable flying conditions.

Little Feet

Little feet,
how you like to wander
down the hallways
down the stairways,
into breezeways,
and out to driveways.
How you love
to lead me to the places
that I need to go,
don't need to go,
and don't want to go.
Little feet,
You are so little,
doning your little blue shoes,
taking little blue steps,
yet you take me so much farther
then I ever would have thought,
or known,
or imagined.
And I want you to know,
my little, little feet,
that though we disagree
on where we should be going,
I'll be thankful,
for even your missteps.

Thank you.

Red Ribbon

His eyes are dull
like the skies
after the sun hides,
and this isn't the first time
he's tripped over
the reasons,
the seasons,
and the treason.
But this time,
he can't point his finger
at any other traitor
but himself.

Her hands are dry
like a parched land
after a long drought,
and this is the last time
she'll overlook
the reasons,
the seasons,
and the treason.
There is no time
for blind eyes
and the only blind one
has been herself.

Oh, the dangers that arise from being imperfect in love.

Welcome

"Welcome home"

echoes in my ears 

as our car pulls in

to the snow-dusted driveway. 

And the stars are uncovered, 

because the clouds are away, 

and it's with tired eyes

that I behold them. 

My feet are wet 

from all the slush, 

and I regret wearing summer shoes 

in the middle of February. 

But what matters most

as I walk through the garage 

is that I am here, 

and the miles separate. 

I am welcomed home, 

by what is known 

and by what is old 

nothing new, 

nothing has changed, 

and in this season 

where nothing is constant, 

"home" is what I need. 

Maybe I'll smile. 

Here It Comes

And here it comes,
what I called for last night,
a begging of forgiveness
because I know my anger angers you.

But Lord, I can't smile,
I can't laugh. I sob.
Into pillows, into people,
into my own failing hands.

Show me a glimpse
of your purpose in this,
because the more I don't understand,
the harder it is to push through.

I will try to trust you Lord,
but trying is all I can do right now.

I'm sorry

Season

Our wintering has begun. 


The leaves have yet to settle, 
yet the frost is in our bones. 
Calling for a hibernation 
we weren't yet prepare for. 
Is it that simple?
To sing a heart to sleep?
Or will this undefined amount of time
be torture to our souls?
Slow is this process, 
but our will is so quick. 
Will we survive this wintersleep, 
or will we never awake?
There's great healing to be had, 
so many emotions to reconcile, 
and so much, so much left to prove.
When we awake, 
who will we be?


Our wintering has begun.