longing

as your body is gone from me, my voice grows smaller. 
i have layers upon me like the matted hair of a cat
and in all my bodily being there is but one small resident of a mouse. 
its heart beats so fast i am afraid of it like a thumbprint. 
how easily it might be eclipsed. 
i push it back underneath the table out of harm's way
where it manages to stay alive, warm like an earlobe,
waiting for your return.

the small blue bird

the small blue bird is, of course, a metaphor

but that makes it no less real

once there were leaves

once where there were leaves
now there is silence
a heartbeat between two cupped hands
a hair's length before the talk begins again
of when and where and how
new leaves will grow

book and table

it's a quiet night.  he picks up a book and begins to read.  the story might go anywhere despite what the words drilled onto the page might suggest.  it is this way with writing, with love, with each new day, with life;  the story becomes what the story becomes.

winter day

how much

low little

comprises anything
everything?