Love Letters

Trace the shape of a heart
absently on the edge of a page
and you will know
the inheritance of my losses—
the secret places in a drawer
discovered by the dead
who dream of the stage
where life was sweet
and the silver screen magic
is strangely spoken
in French.

My pen traces
the letters of the words
I can not say
but that go on forever
in the landscape of forgiveness—
in the house of the mind
that is now the only dwelling
in the kingdom of ordinary time.

What story will I tell
in this Book of Names—
this chronicle of wanting more
when everything else
falls away?

I can’t help but compose
a small love song,
forming the round droplets of notes,
waiting at the edges of my lashes—
waiting for the sure light
of morning to find the paper
and the courage to leave my mark.

The Edge of Each White Petal

I curl around myself tonight,
arms cradle knees tucked to chest,
and hold tight
as dusk falls all around
like the gift of the last sacred
days of spring.

Comfort is somewhere
in the unfolding of the tiny wings
of maple leaves,
yellow-green with red veins throbbing
in this new heat just outside the place
I hope to finally sleep.

I can’t ignore this last mistake. . .
This place of solitude
violated as if it were an open door
left wide and welcome to any stranger.
I was sure I had locked it,
patted the place in my pocket
where the key was secure,
but the skeleton of that body dropped
to the earth and was lost
only to be found by the sorrow
of the universe I wanted
to leave behind.

The voice of my lover
tried to find me here—
searching the lonely hours
with a lantern just at the shore
of this bruised darkness,
but the sound of that music
was lost in the branches
where the wind always has her way
and will not share her jealous grip on fear
that holds the past whispering anger’s hot breath
in my ear.

Why not weep then
curled like a shell
on the back of a cold snail
crossing the garden at midnight?

Why not weep
for the moon
to delivery me
out of the water
like a lily
who will not bloom again
for another thousand years?

At least here
Love will find me
and gasp, smiling
with honest delight,
unclouded by his doubt—
Faith shining at the edge
of each white petal.