The Poetry Experience

Before now I fancied Autumn
      for her gilded nostalgia,
   her crisp maple fringes
      dressed in borrowed color.

      Bright only by reflection,
she lingered in long shadows
where I have always felt safe,
   addicted to secondhand light.

My fireplace dismantled.
In its space,
                I place
a screen
to showcase a fireplace
with nothing behind it.

Fragments of pearl stipple the steeple,
then cuddle the dust, sun and moon
fusing behind pale fleece, still
                    all but the wind chill,

I forget a stranger’s name
in the same breath
he becomes a friend.

I remember
watercolor eyes, accordion fingers,
rolling nose crinkles, hilltop brows,
laughs eclipsed by upturned lips,
freckles mapped out to precision.
          But those two, 
                     three syllables slip.

O Lord, restore us to that garden—
we’ve forgotten the scent of roses.
That stain-glass mirror in our pockets
does nothing but expose us.

Rinse and repeat—the news cyclops,
its blind eye turned, tapering tears.
Catch and release—the news cyclone,
maelstrom of manufactured fears.

I don’t like giving you goodbyes
that fade too fast before my eyes,
so before I crash, I close them once,
and if I’m dreaming, pinch me twice,
and I’ll open them to empty fields
where once were sparks and Ferris wheels,
but now lay the reminders of
cafes, conversations, and diners, love…

The picture, for one moment, clears
in the glint of a window cracked.
Between eyelids pregnant pinching glass,
shaky inhales of candle wisp disperse
into lantern blurs of paprika hair,
dancing in a dream in her living room,
all viewed from my own.

God, are my dreams too shallow?
My ceiling is not the stars,
my sky is not the universe.

Overestimating my footsteps
and limiting reality to imagination—

Walking slowly, running behind,
wishing we could slow down time,
water the sprig to bloom, lavender afternoon
to make us feel whole inside.

We’re finding it hard to let go,
slow mornings and espresso,
like watching the world spin,
or watching a whirlwind
scatter through a meadow.

Though my wings are clipped,
I sing of heaven’s sound,
before its lyrics fade away
into earth’s hollow ground.

Now with anchored feathers,
I lift my lantern high,
and though tethered to the dark,
it’s lured to the sky.