Out of Rain

Out of rain

siping sliping slowly

across my face

catching salt

and lingering

memory, words

fall upon my heart.

With each beat

tripping tipping down

the curve of our soulsl

to find agril ground;

the only paper

to write upon.

and thus, poetry

tastes of bitter earth

and salty skies.

There is a willow in the wood

There is a willow in the wood

she weeps for want of wonder

lusting at the stars.

She digs roots deep

depths of longing

and deciduous dreams,

but as she reaches skyward bound

earth calls her branches down

wind moves her tresses fro

a lovers dance

then quickly goes

e’en bird and bee are free

to languish here and there

in blossoming of spring.

So the willow in the wood

wants but no one seeks or should

weep with her

when stars trapse below or

autumn beckons

winter’s snow.