For the Muse

for the gardens

that never succumb

to the weight of

their history,

for the ancient

wooden structures

that become

more full of love

with each passing

year, until one

day they will

collapse from

the enormity of

this love that has

seeped into

its bones,

for the muse,

which compels me

to bring heart to hand,

word to page,

even when i don’t

know what i

have to say,

even when no

expression will

ever reflect

what inside, too

is always changing,

with gratitude

for the trying,

for the going on

 

– TS

What We Are

and maybe I can

swirl between the lights

like snowflakes that dance

their small dances with the

winter wind on their way

down or out to their

vanishing point

 

and maybe I have

feeling like a bird

would, living out its destiny

among the clouds, wanting

for it to come down

to rest, in soft defiance

of the order of things

 

and maybe it is

you I follow down every

and all roads, not seeing

the burdens I have

rested upon you, who

knows what love is

and what love is not

 

and maybe, finally,

i will love the snowflake

for its imminent disappearance,

the bird for its freedoms,

and you, always, for

bringing me to the reckoning

of what I am

 

– TS