Golden sunset

When did dusk’s first rays start to falter?

I dream of the time when all your delusions

were also mine, how we played like children in a

Golden sunset that; us thus observing,

could hardly bear to touch horizon.

How we wasted time, languishing in an infinity

we were sure we held asymptote. If only we knew -

Those waves licking our feet were not caresses, but rather,

trenchant reminders of a now bygone shore.

Then, words did not need much imagination to stir,

nor did your glance require evening’s softening lights

to make tender. Silently we communicated, rapt as

sea made harmonious conversations with sky.

Now I know you but through the water’s reflection.

Though every feature’s constant, my right reaches out, only,

to meet your left – and while we move still in tandem,

We move still, in opposite direction.

Sometimes the sea breeze scatters your image

and I glide a lone gull, veering across

luminescent waters so strange that I oft in my curiosity

contemplate a migratory course.

Yet always I dream of a golden sunset – though now we expect

that night must surely fall; it is still this hand I know that will

catch mine, prepare, and make patient,

For tomorrow’s golden dawn.

Through the window

Sometimes I in the window see
Muted shadows, grey yet bright to me
Sometimes I in the window hear
Conversations made, whispered yet clear
Sometimes at the window’s side
Sit those I’d past in life’s quick strides
Sometimes at the window’s end
 A love gone stale; forgotten friends.

Now; caressing her wooden frame,
My gaze upon that cognizant square -
Here flesh and bone a rhythm let
The other side, a rhythm dare?
Connected thus, each limb to limb
And every quirk and foible mine,
Reflecting all I might have been
So binds. This window of my mind.

the wing-ed life.

I will always remember how the snow fell.

Not straight down to earth; but lingering

Diaphanously ; riding the warm drafts of our

Breaths - visible automobiles of air

stonewalling the snowflake’s sojourn, though simultaneously

melting, so that each delight prolonged makes more tenuous

the existence of its host. A moth’s philosophy -

Wings beating closer to life,

Wings beating closer to death.

I thought this would be easy. After all we were

One breath. You understood my exhaling,

Iceberg psychology, undercurrents cold and

Warm. How well they mixed, these nascent upwellings of

youth made profitable. I imagined us

El Nino and La Nina; weather’s recreants and

Recreators – incommensurate with the world, though

constant with one another.

How many snowflakes, does one miss in memory?

Your words now, frozen, in the cold recesses of

Thought. Deconstructed and compartmentalized-  

Intonations, Inflections, Insouciance.

It must be rational, this love. A veritable store

Of been-theres, done that’s; well-stocked with hopes

Wished and wished for

too much. Softer words screech stalactites and

static might-have-beens. If only one could tarry to

see temporal;  it is not for winter as a season I pine

but the naked glimpse of serendipitous

emotion, incandescent in your eyes.

Maybe Time is no custodian but a jealous

Divinity, dangling contentment as its prize,

seducing us with the promise of tomorrows

not worth living for -

We turn sacrifice, you and I,

our moments made forfeit as we are raised

and razed, at eternity’s altar.

Pray - let us be as snowflakes

and in the struggle to stay afloat, and love

We will.