In seek of sorrow

are those of barren land.

Dry fire having leveled the fields,

only sadness would soothe

the smoldering ash.

Too great to think

happiness could water from above

Just enough to feel anything,

some thing,

amongst the ravaged crops.

The rustle of dead wheat

sounds sweeter than silence.

This burn, a necessity for each life.

And when winter turns,

solid stone white to melted pine,

the work begins.

Plowing and planting,

starting anew,

these are the seasons

that cultivate being




what do you do with open endings?

do you seal them with melting wax

pressed firm and marked closed

with branded meld?


origami the edge

in decorative closure

easily unfolded in case time’s

sundial illuminates more opportunity?


leave it untouched

as live edged, unlicked enclosure

easily entered and altered

as an open wound

unwilling to heal?

whatever you do,



no matter how you treat it

it is

and always will be

an ending.


whispered to sleeping robins

were all the things left unsaid.

questions and answers

of earth pulled out from under me

and swept under braided rag rug.

poems still buried

under layers of once was

or could have been,

but not yet executed to the rise of day.

I poked bruises on my heart

when I continued to read

those words into tomorrows,

tomorrows of my yesterdays

in words wrote for me,

but left in someone else’s mailbox.

I stood and stared,

frozen in movement,

unable to escape the sight

or unwilling to break from

my only remaining spool

to you



were like wading within river

precarious footing of veiled water

in uncharted bed of rock and root.

the worry deep within the belly of hope

that a sudden drop off

would be upon that next step.


when it did sink me down

that fear never faded.

it was always swirling

you could drown me deeper

until I could never rise again, so,

I walked out

onto open shore.