Last Days of November

Dark fell quick and
a dead of winter wind
found a pitch and blow
that screamed as it
squeezed into small cracks
in newish combination windows.

The howl of it

circled round and pushed

supernatural energy into

tight places that

hide the deepest secrets,

pierce sleep and tell all.

The three nights that end

the month are suspended 

between the day of the dead

and the birth of a savior;

quiet on the books yet

pull old souls into dreams.

 

Like Dickens’ characters,

one is dead and gone,

another alive, omniscient,

the third a whisper

who lives beyond 

what might be.

Morning raises the shade,

legs twisted in pillow

and blanket knots,

withered tendrils of 

dying greens rooted in soil

but dead on the ground.

Time Change

The clock turned back and I caught a glimpse  
of the photo that sits on the table next to the bed.
Forty forever years ago I recognize myself,
fresh freckled face buried into the cheek of him with a kiss.
It captured us then.
His loft of blonde hair blown off of his face 
leaning in, the corner of his lip pulled into a smile
looking to something else that was off scene and
not ever explored in the years spent in each other’s company.

I roam around inside my memories of him trying to find love,

a desperate ache that held me captive for too long.

For the life of me, I don’t know where I put it. 

Too big to hide, the elephant was with us every time

we walked clutched handed to the car to return me

as he whispered, miss the flight.

The scene covered my heart with belonging in our good years. 

The bad years, I don't recall as well. 

After years of quiet and living busy away from him,

his tears confess that he loved how I loved him, 

A week later, he died. Not fifty. 

In this fall back as I change the clock next to the old frame,

his half smile seems strained. I have to put that picture away.

The hour may have turned back, but I can’t anymore.

Dirt

A bowl of popcorn tipped over to

release hundreds, maybe tens, 

of hot, white clouds of corn 

over the woolen area rug.

The broom, last used to dust up

after a long haired cat, already

overburdened with irregular sweeps, 

pushed nothing into the dust pan.

On hands and knees then,

loose fibers from the rug and 

life shards shred from the couch

became alarmingly conspicuous.

Vacuuming over the daily life

a few days before meant to

pick up the dirt, failed miserably.

It appeared clean. And company came.

Corralling this spill carefully not to disturb

the delinquent debris visible just now,

perhaps, was meant to live in perpetuity as

a reminder that not all that is left 

is meant to be forgotten. Clean is wiped out

as some dirt clings so as to cultivate

hybrid strength and a new varietal

from what had been left behind.