Morning…

The morning, breathless and scented,

lifts up upon my weighted soul and turns gently

with a kiss too soft.

And holding tender, seeks a word

or simple gesture that says things

that will always be left unsaid.

An embrace of a moment where the answers

to what,

remain covered by dried leaves and bits

of things scurrying, into the dark shadows

just beyond my reach.

 

Winters Desire…

Winters cold wind spreads across a field of summer fallow,

as snow falls gently,

softly tapping on shoulders that have bourn so much,

and whisper cold memories of warmer times.

Landing on tongues, as we giggled,

and caught the low January sun through a dappled forest light,

shimmering as it fell on its way

to the dance floor,

the flash of light and the beat of my heart to the rhythms of this one,

true desire.

And in the grey of my voice calling out to this wind,

and the frigid illusions of these now, tepid dreams,

I am unable to move.

And staring out to what, I’m not sure,

hidden by layers of lies, I can only imagine what awaits.

And with this knowing doubt, I am frozen in my own fear.

Feet always moving towards a simple end,

but a mind stationary, and unable to reconcile the truths of where I am…

And more simply,
why…

Grant Waddell