Stuck on yesterday's falling leaf

​

as if I was riding its zigzags

towards a bed of grass,

where worms wait to tuck

me in- naked branches can't

escape coming winter either,

when snow will bury us all

for a time.

 

Myriad of colours meaningless,

while my rake runs over a lawn,

chases memories

of a yard my father maintained

for years. Any flies dismissed

as a nuisance, not a reminder

we feed the earth.

​

The Secrets That Live in the Dark

​

“You must be very sad,” she said.

“That's why I write,” my answer.

Don't bother saying how words

make better tears than water,

eyes too busy observing

a world already drowning,

glaciers dead and dying-

onions chopped, smile about steam

coming from boiling pot

(peelings already in a plastic grocery bag),

pretend a clean kitchen

means more than what it is,

while I still eat off foam plates,

floss the pesticides from my teeth,

stopped watching gas prices years ago,

and when I die, my eyes

will stay open, tired or sunsets,

but not of the secrets that live

in the dark, yet having to be content

with a white ceiling faded yellow

because nothing stays the same,

not even the shape of despair.

​