Tomorrow

 

Tomorrow I won’t visit

your piles

of white dust; though twisting guilt

will tell me I must, and I won’t

bring roses

or lilies to lay in the dust

at the closing hours

of a wet, spring day

you will spend,

like this one,

by my side, 

rushing and weaving

from the corners of my mind to encompass

my every breath, gouging and pulling at the

very depths of my power to forget

you, and I

a child again

will let you find me wherever I am.

And know one will know

you walk with me tomorrow,

heavy on my aching back,

an invisible,

curling, cloak of black tied chokingly tight.

Know one will know

how you’ll haunt me for nights, now

and the few days that lie ahead,

no one

will hear the words you once said,

but me, behind my time-warp smile,

every step ‘til you’re gone,

a tiny mile,

to conquer 

as I feel you stronger, 

more heavily, 

for a little while.

Saturday Morning Coffee

What would I do, my darling, without hope

of your smile?

Without the foresight you bring to each weary mile that I

walk, for six days in seven,

in getting to you,

my scant piece of heaven, fallen without hurt,

like a fledgling bird,

as soft and determined, your every

word to me

is beauty,

is sense,

is joy,

in a world where there seems

a thrum of white

noise that invades me, without ask or invite,

that wakes me too early, in yet dark, fearful

nights where your voice,

softly resonates,

calling me to Saturday morning’s grace:

calling: come sit

with the sun on your back,

calling:

stay,

I have all

the wonder

you have pined for

and lacked, in an arduous,

eternal week,  

spent counting and hiding

that which

your soul seeks,

come, 
now,

lean on me,

and hear only

the wind in these trees, 
inhale coffee

and vanilla

as the gentle breeze

wraps around us, melting present and past,

there is only this moment today:

let me

make you
laugh.