April 5

In eleven months
we could have joy soon and find
the keys to our locks.

April 4.

This is my wish today:
you, forever.

And if they take that away,
it will get better

for I will follow you
(I'll find you,
chase you,
until my fingers
slip between yours
from behind you)

wherever.

April 3

Sunny.

It's like summer

when I have no feeling of spring.

Awake; resolved;

the promise.

Months will pass

and soon we will be

past today.

How slow.

How fast.

Warmth's fingers melt

into my face.

Come soon.

Come soon.

April 2

Can I sit with you

and know I just sit with you?

Just that stirs passion.

April 1

I don't always choose words.
Over me, they hang
suspended, bouncing
on light, light string.

I catch them like spiders
on threaded webs,
carrying them, wisp and air,
floating past the dust mites
of my over-crowded mind.

I discard some,
annoyed,
and shudder
at their spidery-ness.
I shy from their unloveliness
and skittering shape and size.

Some words are uncomely;
eight-legged and untimely.
(Not all words are poetry.)

But some are fireflies.

April 1, 2011