Do you still see the dead
walking among the crowd,
in the library, on the bus,
at the playground? Everywhere
but the old stone church
where bones grow brittle
beneath its crumbling weight?

You once said they smile
and whisper words you cannot
fathom, turn, and walk away.
They carry light in glass jars,
brushing against the living
like a winter wind through
a forest of barren trees.

A Week or More

So I’ll be on vacation for the next several days. The triple digit Texas heat is a great excuse to get out of town and head to the mountains. My posts over the next several days will either be photos or repeats…but hopefully inspiration will strike. 

Be well and write on. You never know what the next word will uncover.

Photo: Windmill farm in West Texas.

perfect loss

Embed from Getty Images

into the fire
out seared

immersed in water
the afterglow surges
enters again


you are the looming gray cloud
overhead everywhere ominous
a reminder of rain too long absent

pour yourself onto this field
where cracks and lines trace
the years of scorching loss

i stand in your shade
a respite from an unyielding sun
waiting for your rushing flood