Friday, March 31, 2017

I Could Have

I Could Have

I was going to write a
poem tonight about what
love could be and what it
cannot, about promises
and apologies that hang
in fog between hills and
roll across harbors, heavy
air that muffles all sound
but that of my own voice.
I had hoped to weave some
witty metaphors about love
without need, and need
without love, like anchors
without ships, and ships ...

well, you get the idea.

But it’s Friday. So rather 
than ponder this trite and 
well-worn path about the 
human condition, I took a 
hot shower and will paint 
my nails Sugar Fairy Grey, 
just like I did on Fridays in 
high school when I realized 
I enjoyed my own company.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

These Days

Late winter can’t be
trusted. Warm and
sunny February days
beckon bits of green
to pop and push
through hard ground.
Riots of purple crocuses
join the party. They
should know better.
How easily we forget
the truth about these
days. How quickly we
deceive ourselves with
fantasies of summer’s
long shadows. It’s a
fool’s dream, as the
thermometer again falls
and the bells of our
copper rain chain –
last year’s anniversary
gift – are clogged with
ice. So I retreat again to
the view of our snowy
yard. The crocuses,
buried for now, will
emerge unscathed as
they do each year. I rely
on that as I long for days
of brighter light and
warmer air between us.